


The Direction of Sunbeams

by alexxphoenix42



Series: The Sweetest Things [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beekeeping, Bees, Case Fic, Clubbing, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Time, Group Snuggles, Honey, In Sussex early, Infidelity mentioned, Jealousy, John's POV, M/M, Misunderstandings, Off-screen Domestic Violence, Romance, Some violence in a case, alternative universe, dance lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 71,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: John isn't sure he'll ever find his way back after invaliding home out of the army, broken and lost. The black clouds only part when he happens upon a gorgeous beekeeper selling his wares at a farmers' market. Who could imagine buying a jar of honey would turn his life around so completely?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This story retells the first meeting John and Sherlock enjoy in "Nothing So Sweet" - this time from John's point of view . . . and moves onward. The first flush of love is glorious, wonderful, beautiful, but of course needs to fit into the real world at some point. You guys begged for a sequel. Here ya go! :)

 

“The keeping of bees is like the direction of sunbeams.”  
― Henry David Thoreau

 

)0(

 

Grey. It felt as if the whole world had gone grey, washed out, like a photo left too long in the sun. John felt as if he had been left out too long himself, dry and cracked with all the juice run out of him. He sighed and moved past a knot of people to glance over the rhubarb and onions heaped at a stall. Nothing particularly inspired him, and he made his way to the next booth, leaning heavily on his cane. _Damn his leg_. It had rained all morning, and the damp seemed to seep into his bones. It didn’t matter that the ache in his thigh was all in his head. It still hurt.

“Come to the farmers' market,” Harry had insisted. Since he’d arrived to stay with his sister and her wife a month ago, he’d hardly left the house except to take a cab to his twice-a-week physio appointments.  Clara had smiled and gone on about how lovely the market was, and John agreed to join them if only to please her.

John had nursed a distant hope that the outing might prove a distraction, but the greyness had followed him here too. He left Harry and Clara enthusiastically selecting herbs for dinner, telling them he’d just have a walk around on his own.

“Yeah, sure Johnny. Just meet us by the front at five, okay?” Harry called over her shoulder. John managed a bit of a smile and agreed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Harry so happy. That was at least one worry off his mind.

Left to his own bad company, John stumped about, moving from one display to the next. The day had tipped to warm with the sun out, and he bought a lemonade from a booth selling fruit drinks. He'd not had much of an appetite lately, but the pastries at another stall looked tempting. He browsed a bit, and bought a sausage roll remembering how much he’d liked them as a kid. It tasted . . . okay. Sadly nothing seemed as good as he remembered these days. He ate half of it, dropping the remainder in a rubbish bin as he clumped onward. It didn’t leave much in his pocket, but he had time to kill so he decided he might as well make a circuit of the market before meeting back up with Harry and Clara.

John was just rounding a bend in the path, limping along with the damn cane when he saw the booth selling honey. The jars looked beautiful, almost luminous in the afternoon light. He moved in closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. John liked honey well enough, but Harry was partial to it, and it occurred to him that he might buy her a jar. She’d been a brick taking him in like she had. John lifted a jar wondering how much it cost, probably mad-expensive poncy stuff, when the owner of the shop stood up from behind the counter.  John almost dropped the jar.  The creature appeared from amidst the glowing containers of honey like some otherworldly apparition, like Aphrodite rising from the seafoam. John barely had time to register marble-pale skin, black curls dark as shadows, and electric blue eyes before the man began speaking.

“The jars are all six pounds,” his vision said. “Would you like to taste that one?”

John hardly registered the rolling sounds of that gorgeous baritone as words. He’d never wanted to reach out and touch another person’s face so badly in his whole life. John wanted to slide his fingers over those cheekbones, see if they were as sharp as they looked, trace the outline of those ridiculously plump lips . . . _Christ, what was wrong with him?_

“Oh . . . alright,” John mumbled.

The man’s white shirt was rolled to his elbows revealing artfully sculpted forearms so pale the blue of his veins shone through. He scooped out some honey for John to try, passing the plastic spoon over with a hand that was as long and elegant as its owner.

John felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him as he realized he was starting to get a hard-on standing in a farmers' market. He tamped it down as best he could, focusing on tasting the sample.  It burst over his tongue like summer, like sunshine distilled into a mouthful of almost unbearable sweetness.

“Mmm, that’s really good.” John licked his lips, chasing the last of the flavor.

Somehow the beautiful man guessed he had just gotten back from service and was staying with a relative. It was amazing. For the first time since he’d come back to England, he felt like someone was actually seeing him. It was as if the edges that had gone all blurry on him were finally coming back into focus.

“Amazing. So you’re some kind of mind reader?” John asked, impressed.

“Thankfully, no. I  . . . observe, and draw conclusions.”

Talking with the man was like a riding the drunken barrels at the fair, all light and sound, with his head in a whirl, but at the end, he’d bought a jar of gorgeous honey, and had received an invitation to the man’s home. John floated away from the booth on a cloud.

“John!” Sherlock called after him. That was the gorgeous creature’s name, _Sherlock_.

“Yes?” He turned, happy for another chance to speak with him.

“Don’t forget your cane.” Sherlock’s dream of mouth curled up at the side.

“Oh, God, right.” John felt like an utter tit. He moved back to grab the accursed thing where it had fallen in the grass before the booth. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So, next Tuesday.” John lingered, not wanting to go now that he was back in the beautiful man’s orbit.

“I look forward to it.” Sherlock’s smile did lovely things to his summer-ocean eyes.

John might have loitered there forever, basking in the lovely man’s gaze, but a couple with several small children jostled in, and the moment was gone. Sherlock turned to serve them, and John shook his head at his folly. He walked onward, noting that his bum leg felt almost normal.

 

)0(

 

“John do you need a lift to your physio appointment?” Harry asked over the breakfast table. “I’m working later today. I can drive you in.” 

Harry’s schedule as a hair dresser could shift from week to week whereas Clara’s accounting job had her out the door early each morning. The Watson twins lingered in the tidy little kitchen, alone save for the occasional appearance of Clara’s black cat who wound her way around John’s ankles before coming to lap at her bowl of water.

“No, I’m good,” John mumbled, concentrating on the sports section as he spooned up his porridge.

The bullet that had ripped through John’s shoulder had knocked him clean out of Afghanistan and back to England with an ugly scar, and a bloody psychosomatic limp to match. The army was done with him, and with the tremor in his hand, being a surgeon was right out too. John had been in a dark place since he’d washed up on his sister’s doorstep.

“No, really it’s fine.” Harry reached for the jar of honey for her toast. “It’s not far from the salon.”

 “Not going in today,” John finally admitted.

“John.” Harry put her knife down. She had her long suffering, big-sister-by-five-minutes voice on. “You can’t miss those appointments. It’s important.”

 “For Godsake, Harriet, I’m a doctor. I understand the benefits of regular physical therapy.” John felt a twinge in his shoulder just thinking about it. “I rescheduled . . . I have a thing today.”

“You what?” Harry’s brow creased. “You never leave the house. What kind of ‘thing’ could you possibly have?”

John folded the paper down with a sigh. “I have a tour of an apiary today. I got invited, when I bought the honey at the market.” John waved toward the jar that that Harry had just used to cover her toast halves.

“Huh, didn’t pick that as your kind of thing.” Harry frowned a moment more until her look suddenly turned sly. “Oh, was she cute? The girl who asked you?”

“Oh God, leave it. It’s just a tour.”

“Riiiight.”  Harry bit into her toast. “Bet she’s cute.”

John harrumphed and went back to hiding behind the paper, saying nothing more.

 

)0(

 

John had been pleased to give the taxi driver the address for Holmes’ Apiary, but as the car made its way up the long tree-lined drive, his fears at not having dressed well-enough, not _being_ good enough crept over him. The strangely-lovely man must have felt sorry for a returning veteran. It was the only excuse he could come up with to explain the invitation to visit.

When they broke through the trees to view the house, John’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t just that it was a huge, posh Georgian manor, which was intimidating enough, but it was the exact image of a house from a book he’d loved as a child. In it, a boy called Timothy had lost his parents, and been sent away to stay with a kindly woman who turned out to be a witch, the good sort, with a magic garden in the back. John had read that story until the pages fell out. It wasn’t that he’d wished his parents dead, but Mum had been sick already, and Dad falling in to the bottle, and the idea of a magical house where no one yelled or threw things had been a fabulous escape.

When the car stopped, John paid the cabbie, a friendly old fellow who had nattered away the whole trip, feeling almost in a trance.

“You want me to come back at a certain time, mate?”

“No, I’ll just call when I need a pick up.”

“Fair enough.”

John climbed awkwardly out of the cab dealing with a cane and bag, as his wretched shoulder and leg both decided to act up.

He stood looking at the house a moment letting the familiar and unfamiliar merge. The likeness was uncanny. It wasn’t even that the home matched the tiny line drawings that came in the book.  Rather, it was the image John had conjured in his _head_ of what it looked like, down to the ivy climbing over the walls, and the flowering bushes out front. Shaking himself out of his reverie, John turned to wave the friendly cabbie off, and leaning on his cane, made his way up the walk to the front door.

He’d had no idea that Holmes Apiary was based in such a grand place when he accepted the invitation. He'd imagined some quaint old four-room cottage with the bees out back if anything. Sadly when the door opened, and the gorgeous elfin creature he’d thought about for the last three days appeared, John blurted out the first inane thought that popped into his head.

“John, so glad you could make it.” Sherlock smiled regally.

“Sherlock, are you rich?”

Sherlock blinked, and explained that his grandmother had left him the house when she died. He graciously ushered John inside, leaving him feeling utterly wrong-footed. Trying to get back on some sort of level ground, John stopped to compliment a painting on the wall as he followed Sherlock deeper into the house. Thankfully his earlier déjà vu receded when the large, hushed rooms they passed didn’t match his dream home at all. The smaller yellow kitchen they reached was a pleasant contrast, filled with light and a nice view of the garden out back.

“Oh, isn’t this lovely!” John exclaimed

“Thank you. I’ve always been partial to this side of the house.” Sherlock smiled shyly.

He had on a dark purple shirt that made the blue in his startling eyes pop even more. John found himself staring for a moment before he remembered the gift he was carrying.

“Oh, here, I brought this.” John handed Sherlock the bag.

Sherlock unpacked the jam-filled sponge cake that John had finally picked up in the village after agonizing over what to bring. If he’d been going to visit a woman, he might have brought flowers. Looking outside at the riot of blooms covering the back, he realized a bouquet would have paled next to the beauty of the natural landscape. He was glad he’d gone with something to eat.

“You got this from Milly’s.” Sherlock named the right cake shop straight away.

“The girl at the shop said it was their specialty.” John smiled at his lucky guess.

“Thank you, it’s my favorite.”

John couldn’t help the spread of warmth that moved through him at the look of delight on Sherlock’s face. _Christ, Watson get a grip._

“Here, why don’t I show you around the garden and the hives?” Sherlock glanced toward the window. The curve of his long, white neck was like something you might see on a sculpture in an art gallery.

 “Sure, I’d like that.”

Sherlock led John to a back door, out into the warm buzz of bees and a wave of scent, the combined perfume of a thousand flowers that washed over John in a deep inhalation.

Sherlock kitted them up in some protective gear, netted hats, and long sturdy gloves from a gardening shed.

“We don’t need the whole suit if we aren’t harvesting honey.” Sherlock assured him. “Just move slowly, and relax yourself, the bees can sense if you’re calm or not.”

“Alright,” John smiled, working the thick gloves on, not quite sure if the bright-eyed man was kidding or not.

The hives were nothing more interesting that a line of stacked square boxes up on legs, but the activity of the bees coming and going was like a wave of motion, like a single living thing undulating over the bright color of the yard.

John held his breath, hanging back as Sherlock stepped into the writhing cloud. The bees seemed to part around him, then lovingly settle over his netted hat and arms, walking across him as an expected part of the landscape. Sherlock opened up the top box, lifting out a square frame that looked to be nearly filled with a whitish wax. Sherlock looked as giddy as a child in a sweet shop.

“Yes, they’ve been hard at work on this one. Won’t be long before it’s ready to take in.”

“Fantastic. And that’s the honey inside there?” John moved a bit closer to squint at the sheet of beeswax. He flinched as a few bees moved his direction, but they merely landed on the hand wrapped around his cane for a moment as if sniffing him out before flying away.

“Yes, it’s difficult to see when it’s covered like this, but the bees naturally form a grid of interlocking cells to hold it, it’s really quite a clever design.”

 Sherlock waved a hand over the comb dislodging a few bees from his arm. They buzzed around a moment as if confused before resettling over him.

“After the worker bees gather nectar from the surrounding flowers, they bring it back to the hive, and regurgitate it into the mouth of another bee until it’s passed into the wax cells. Once they cap it off, it can stay preserved for years.”

 “Wow. So honey is really bee vomit?” John frowned.

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Sherlock chuckled. “The beekeepers association cautions against using that term in one’s promotional materials though.”

“Ah, well your secret’s safe with me. Imagine, making something so delicious that way.”  

 “They’re fascinating creatures, truly.” Sherlock lifted his arm, seeming to see the bees on him for the first time. He held his fingers up and watched as several bees used them as launch pads, lifting off into the blue sky. “Did you know they can solve complex maths? They can fly the shortest distance they need between their best food sources, and then communicate by gesture alone to the rest of the hive exactly how to reach those sources, factoring in the curvature of the earth.”

“I had no idea.” John couldn't help smiling at the mad bee whisperer, watching as he practically patted the bees, urging them aside as he settled the frame and box back to rights.

“Indeed. In fact, researchers have employed the algorithm bees use to find nectar near their hive but not close enough to attract predators as a model for finding the homes of serial killers.”

“Wow, that’s just . . . that’s something.”

“Isn’t it? Come inside, I’ll show you my workroom.”

John followed Sherlock, listening as he pointed out some of the more recent flower varieties he’d planted for the bees, feeling as if he’d absorbed the warmth of the day through his pores. He might be glowing just a bit he thought as they left the protective gear in the shed and headed back to the house. John carried his cane almost for show, the pain in his leg having receded almost completely.

Sherlock led John into a cool, whitewashed room that must have been the laundry of the house in decades past. He darted about, proudly showing off his machinery that extracted and tested the honey. It looked like something between a mad scientist lab and a wizard’s alchemy lair. Sherlock turned to John, leaning in with a sly look, his narrowed eyes making him look almost feline.

 “Here, have you ever tasted raw honeycomb?” he drawled in a low-pitched tone that slithered delightfully down John’s ear canal. It made him think Sherlock was asking him something of a completely different nature. He took just a moment to process his actual words.

“No, I can’t say that I have.” John blinked.

Sherlock moved to a long set of shelves along one wall filled with translucent jars of honey ranging from pale yellows to the deepest ambers. John had the sudden passing fancy that  Sherlock had bottled sunshine up and hoarded it away for a rainy day. The tall man had to go up on tiptoe to reach the back of one shelf to pluck up the pot he was searching for. He unscrewed the lid, and finding a knife on a worktop, returned to present John with a bit of wax honeycomb oozing sweet yellow drops.

“Ta.” John pulled the chunk off the end of the knife and popped it into his mouth. A tangy, sweet explosion greeted him as he bit into the resisting wax. It wasn’t the straight sweetness he was expecting . . . it was complicated.  “Mmmm, God that’s delicious.”

Sherlock took his own bite, closing his eyes. He seemed to be almost listening to the flavors as he chewed. Oh, he was simply _lovely_ to watch, so present, so engaged.

John licked the residual stickiness from his fingers relishing in the delightful flavor as Sherlock’s seaglass eyes popped back open to regard him.

“What do you do with the hard bits?” John worked the remaining wax around his mouth.

Sherlock led him to a rubbish bin, and then showed him the area where he made his fantastic soaps. John had enjoyed a bath just yesterday with the last bit of one. He’d had to fight Harry and Clara for it. Everyone had enjoyed the honey-scented soap he’d gotten at the farmers market.

John stood close beside his host watching his long, pale hands flitter over his equipment, and stacks of molded soap. _God, even his hands were gorgeous_. When he offered John a new collection of soaps to take home, John decided he would hide them and not let the women know he had them.

“Why don’t we go in and have tea?” Sherlock tipped his head toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, great.” John followed Sherlock, trying vainly not to stare at his arse the entire time and failing horribly.

Sherlock fussed about, getting the tea things ready, asking John just to sit when he offered to help. He did, happy for a ring-side seat to watch Sherlock at work.

“So, how long have you been doing all this?” John gestured at the bee hives outside.

“Only a few years,” Sherlock admitted, navigating elegantly around the kitchen, each movement fluid, almost choreographed like a dancer. “I lived in London after uni for several years.”

“Ah, and you gave it all up to become a gentleman beekeeper?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock set the table, laying down china that looked like something from _Antiques Roadshow,_ the cups a thin, almost translucent porcelain.  “And you’re an army doctor just back from Afghanistan.”

 “Now how did you know about my being a doctor? You’re doing that mind reading thing again aren’t you?”

“Hardly, I see things. I simply observe the facts.”

“Right, you said you’d tell me how you did that.”

Sherlock grinned, delighted, like a little boy sharing a box of treasures as he laid out one by one the observations he’d made about John to deduce his current situation.

“Fantastic.” John shook his head, marveling at the clever creature before him.

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do they normally say?”

“Something quite rude.” Sherlock risked a smile, and John laughed.

Sherlock poured the tea once it had steeped, and though John usually took his black, he couldn’t help pulling the deep yellow jar of honey closer, and letting a spoonful drizzle down into his cup. It was delicious. He helped himself to a scone that Sherlock offered, and split it in half to coat with more of the golden delight.

Sherlock cut the cake John had brought, the knife plunging down into the sponge, cream sticking to the sides as he carefully transferred a slice to a plate for John. Sherlock licked a bit of cream from his thumb distractedly as he passed it over, and John felt a spike of heat straight to his cock. He shifted a bit in his seat, and thanked Sherlock, picking up his fork to hide his discomfort.

They talked until they were stuffed with baked goods, and fairly sloshing with tea, both seemingly unwilling to break the spell that had spun around them in the cozy, yellow kitchen. When the conversation turned serious and Sherlock admitted to kicking a drugs habit by starting up with his bees, John couldn’t help it, he had to touch the beautiful man. John leaned in and scooped up his pale, elegant hand looking slightly lost on the center of the table.

He didn’t mean to go too fast, rush in where he wasn’t wanted. Sherlock hadn’t given him any indication that he fancied John exactly, but then he had asked him over and spent the day playing tour guide. That had to count for something. The man pulled him in like a magnet, like a bee to a blooming stalk of foxglove. John leaned in closer without much thought and kissed him.  It was electric, like current passing over him, finally getting to taste the glorious full lips that had haunted him for days. Sherlock’s breath was warm and sweet, and he returned the caress hungrily, his hands coming up to hold on. John drank him down with a sigh, feeling as if he’d just arrived somewhere familiar but for the very first time. The angle across the table was terrible though. John’s wretched shoulder throbbed in protest, and after an aching moment of bliss, they sat back.

“John, if this isn’t too forward . . .” the lovely man stammered, cheeks flushed, his lips swollen, looking like sex on a plate. _Jesus_. John’s heart swelled into his throat with longing.

“Want to touch you . . .” John murmured. “Please . . .”

“Oh, God, yes.”

Sherlock stood, pulling him through the stately hallway to the stairs, taking John to what he hoped was a bed. They stumbled through a doorway into a high-ceilinged room that looked as if it had come from the Victoria and Albert. Country estate, circa late 1800’s.

“This is your room?” John glanced about at the framed prints, a tall armoire and the massive four poster bed and had to laugh. “It looks like something out of a museum.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Sherlock frowned.

“No, no it’s fine. Come here.” John forgot about the posh room instantly as he tumbled Sherlock to the bed, aching to kiss that glorious, long neck. Sherlock moaned encouragingly under him, and it set John’s blood on fucking _fire_.

In a blur, John was touching, kissing, devouring the true work of art in the room, nearly overwhelmed with having this amazing creature under him at last. God help him, he wasn’t going to last.

It shocked John when Sherlock suddenly sat up and pushed him away. He looked heart rendingly lovely, propped back on his elbows, eyes wide and dark, his clothes rucked half off his pale, lithe body. John licked his lips, confused.

“ . . . is that all you want, a quick bang, and out the door?” Sherlock’s lower lip trembled.

Shit. John had gone and cocked it up already. He should have known he wouldn’t be up to bedding the likes of this exquisite man. John turned to sit on the edge of the mattress, near shaking.

“No, God, no. I’m so sorry.” He dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

 _God_. John knew how to bed women, take it slow, use a bit of finesse, but with men . . . well it had always been a quick one in a locker room, or a dark corner, hadn’t it? Something a bit shameful to get over with as fast as possible. This man didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve _John_.

“Let’s start over, shall we?” Sherlock put a hand to John’s shoulder.

John looked up, daring to hope. “Alright.”

They stripped down to their skivvies, Sherlock looking like some Greek god all classic lines and smooth planes in his dark y-fronts, and lay down on the bed together. Sherlock wrapped John in his arms, and he let himself breathe him in, a mix of outdoors smells, sunshine, and the unique musky scent that was the man himself.  The sudden urge to cry swept over John, but he pushed it down fiercely until the feeling had passed. God, he was so fucked up. How was this going to work, any of this?

Sherlock rubbed over his back, soothingly, and bit by bit, John relaxed against him, and it was okay. It was more than okay. When Sherlock gently asked about his injuries, it wasn’t a problem to talk about it.

“I knew the limp was psychosomatic.” Sherlock’s lovely baritone rumbled by his ear.

“Yeah? How did you figure that?”

“You left your cane in my workroom. You didn’t even notice.”

John huffed a laugh, amazed he hadn’t thought once about his wretched leg. “You’re right, I did. It comes and goes.”

“I hope it stays gone.”

When they came back together, it was worlds apart from the frenzied coupling of before, a languid meeting of lips, hands smoothing, and legs interlocking. Almost in a dream, they shucked their briefs, finally pressing skin on skin. John asked to keep his shirt on, it was . . . more than he wanted to deal with right now, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

When Sherlock reached for a tube of lubricant and slicked their aching cocks, gathering them side by side in his long, lovely hand, John thought he might pass out. It was glorious, beyond words. John let go, tipping over into oblivion as this man coaxed bliss from him. Sherlock stroked himself to completion, as John held him, still amazed that he was able to do this. Touching this man, watching him as he fell apart, it was almost too much.  

Later, after cleaning up, they drifted off, comfortable as puppies tumbled against each other. It was near dark when John next blinked his eyes open, blue shadows spilling into the fancy room.

“Oh, Christ, what time is it?” John rose up on an elbow, feeling a momentary wave of panic at losing track of time so carelessly.

“Probably around eight. Do you need to be somewhere?” Sherlock blinked up at him.

“No, not really. I just didn’t mean to fall asleep like that.” John chuckled, sinking back down, rolling closer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good, this rested.

“Me either.” Sherlock smiled. “It was lovely.” He reached out to find John’s hand, tangling their fingers together.

“Yes, it was.” John yawned. “I should probably get going though.”

“Please don’t go. Stay.” Sherlock’s face was soft in the fading light.

Suddenly the idea of leaving seemed like the stupidest thing ever. What in the world did he have to rush off to? Stumping around Harry and Clara’s, cluttering up the place? Watching another inane show on the telly?

“Okay.” John pulled Sherlock’s hand over and dropped a kiss to his beautifully knobby knuckles. “I think I will.”

After trips to the loo, they made love again, unhurried as before, but even better. John was already starting to memorize the beautiful noises Sherlock made right before he came. John would have been content to lie wrapped up with this man forever, but after his stomach rumbled, Sherlock insisted on feeding him.

“Come on, I’m sure there’s something edible in the fridge,” Sherlock said, rising to tie a fluttery dressing gown around himself.

John slipped on his briefs, and followed Sherlock back down to the kitchen, feeling odd prowling around the grand house in nothing but his underwear. He half expected some snooty butler to step out of the shadows and sneer at him, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind being half dressed amidst the opulence so John let the worry go.

Sherlock snapped a light on in the kitchen, and moved to rummage through the large, modern refrigerator. That and the aga stove were definitely things Sherlock must have updated upon moving in. Sadly it didn’t contain much, but they managed to cobble together some sandwiches, and had more of John’s cake, giggling and eating it with their fingers. They washed it down with a bottle of wine Sherlock produced for the occasion, declaring it the perfect pairing for cheese and pickle, and leftover cake.

Sherlock looked simply edible, the silky dressing gown sliding off one of his broad shoulders, and John couldn’t help pulling him into another long, searing kiss. After licking the taste of the wine from each other’s mouths, they left the tidying up for later, racing upstairs for another delightful round of coaxing pleasure from each other’s bodies.

God, this man was like a drug, and John couldn’t get enough of him. John helped him toss the dressing gown away, revealing his lovely pale skin, pulling him back into the unmade bed as he nuzzled against his neck.

“Ooh, baby, is this all for me?” John palmed Sherlock’s rising cock with a sly smile.

“Hmmm? What?” Sherlock rose up slightly to look down their bodies, watching as John made a fist around his cock, sliding the foreskin gently along his length.

“Aaaaah.” The sound rumbled pleasingly from the back of Sherlock’s throat. “Why yes, Dr. Watson, I do believe that IS all for you. If you can handle it, that is.”

“Cheeky bugger.” John smiled, moving down to tongue over the crown of Sherlock’s rosy erection.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock sank back down, closing his eyes.

“Is that alright?” John licked a stripe up the underside, enjoying the heft of him on his tongue enormously. Sherlock’s cock was long and elegant like the rest of him.

“Yes, yes, GOD, yes.”

John didn’t need much more of an invitation. He dove in, swallowing Sherlock’s length down, holding what he couldn’t reach in his fist. John sucked and hummed, pumping his hand up to meet his bobbing lips, and Sherlock sang an aria of groans and deliciously cut-off noises.

“JOHN, going to . . .”

“Uuuuhhhmmm,” John agreed accepting the warm splash of Sherlock’s release like a gift. John swallowed neatly from practice, surfacing with a grin to an utterly boneless Sherlock spread out over the mattress.

“Oh, God, come here,” Sherlock groaned, holding out his arms. “I think you’ve melted my brain.”

John snugged down happily against him. He smeared kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, mouthing down his throat as the man gradually reassembled. John worked his way slowly back up, and Sherlock turned in his arms to catch his mouth, welcoming him in for another round of deep, languid snogging, tongues tangling lazily together. John’s heavy cock pressed invitingly against Sherlock’s warm belly, and he rocked a few times, enjoying the tease of it.

“You next.” Sherlock smiled crookedly. “What do you want?”

“Here, hang on.” John rolled away, finding the lube. “Let me have your thighs,” John murmured.

Sherlock obligingly parted his legs for John to rub the slick up his inner thighs, then held them together as John pushed his hard length between them.

“Unnnggghh,” John moaned, delighting in the drag against the groove of Sherlock’s plump arse as he finished his stroke.

Sherlock’s long hand reached out to grasp his buttock, kneading into the flesh, urging him on as John moved against him, slide after delicious slide.

“Would you like to fuck me UP the arse next time?” Sherlock’s voice purred by his ear, dark and decadent. _God, that posh voice . . . those words._

“CHRIST.” John fell apart spectacularly with an impressive groan.

Later as they settled down for the night, John was certain there was nowhere else he would _ever_ rather be. Lying in bed half-squashed by his own personal space heater, dark curls ticking under his nose was heaven, sheer heaven.

John woke to his mobile rattling against the floor in the back pocket of his trousers. Sherlock blinked awake as John flipped back the blankets to crouch down on the floor and retrieve his phone. John thumbed it on to find twelve unread messages, and six phone calls waiting for him, all from Harriet Watson-Taylor.

“Shit, I forgot to call my sister. Do you mind?” John motioned to the phone.

“No, of course not.” Sherlock blinked at him, reaching up to rub sleep from his eyes.

He looked adorable with his curls sticking up in clumps, and a pillow crease on one cheek. John wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed and kiss him simply everywhere, but . . . Harry. John made his way to the loo, and after using the toilet, called his sister.

“John, what the hell?” She answered almost immediately.

“Harry, I’m so sorry . . .”

“You wanker! I was up the half night sure you must be in hospital somewhere, why else would my brother NOT return the million calls to his phone?”

“God, I lost track of time. I’m sorry I forgot to call. It was late . . . so I just stayed over.”

“Just STAYED OVER? Here I am thinking you must be right pissed, passed out in a ditch somewhere bleeding out . . .”

“Harry, I wasn’t out DRINKING all night. I think that was more your area.”

“Fuck you, John.” Harry’s voice had gone icy calm.

John groaned. Ugh, he hadn’t meant to say that. What was it about family that brought out your very worst? “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mean that.”

“You were going to come help me pick up some shelves today.” Harry’s voice wobbled a bit.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I did. Look, I’ll get dre . . . sorted, and be right home. It won’t take a tick.”

“You made Clara CRY, you arse.” Harry wasn’t quite ready to back down.

“I’ll make you both dinner, alright? Prove I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll call next time.”

“Fine. So what’s her name? She must be a fit thing to keep you overnight.”

“Harry, God. Can we talk about this later?”

“Yeah, okay, _later_. Get home soon.” Harry rang off without a good-bye.

John wiped a hand over his face. This wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to. He made his way back to the bedroom and found Sherlock sadly already dressed, tucking a fresh shirt into his pressed trousers.

“I’m assuming you need to get back?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow calmly.

Sherlock looked so prim and polished, so remote from the soft creature of the night before. John longed to undo his buttons and tumble him back onto the rumpled sheets, tasting and touching him again in greedy handfuls.

“Yeah, sorry.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “I promised my sister I’d run an errand with her today.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can drive you. Why don’t you take a shower first?” He nodded toward the hallway. “There are fresh towels in the linen cupboard. I’ll go start the tea.”

“Okay, thanks.” Reluctantly, John returned to the bathroom, and turned the taps on in the shower, letting the water heat as he slipped out of his vest and pants. He found more of Sherlock’s wonderful honey soap, and lathered it over himself, feeling a spark of arousal from the smell of it. He laughed a bit thinking that from here on out, just a whiff of honey was going to go straight to his cock. 

Once he’d dried off and pulled on yesterday’s rumpled clothes, John padded down the stairs to find Sherlock in the kitchen. Toast popped up from the toaster just as John entered the room. Sherlock deftly transferred the slices to a plate.

“Perfect timing!” he trilled, turning around. “Sit, it’s all ready.”

“Okay, thanks.” John slid glumly into a seat. He’d been hoping for at least a kiss, but Sherlock flitted about the kitchen assembling things, only sitting himself down with a cup once John was well settled with tea, and toast, and more delightful honey.

“You aren’t eating?” John looked up from the slice he had slathered down.

“I don’t do breakfast.” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s just tea in the morning for me.”

“Well, thanks. This is nice.” John bit into his toast, savoring the sweet.

They talked a bit, it wasn’t completely awkward, but by the time they were ready to go, and John had fetched his cane from Sherlock’s workroom, an invisible barrier seemed to have formed between them. John wasn’t quite sure how to breach it. He followed Sherlock outside to a garage. It had rained earlier, and the flowers smelled incredible, thick and pungent as some exotic tea.

When Sherlock flung open the garage door with the touch of a button, John had to laugh. An older white farm truck took up half the space, but beside it, almost hugging the ground, was the most amazing red sports car John had ever seen.

“You’ve got an Aston Martin?” John whistled, impressed.

“It’s so obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock looked embarrassed. “I went through a rebellious phase after my Nan died.”

“Well, good choice.” John grinned. “I just dyed my fringe blue when I was rebelling back in sixth form.”

John stopped when he realized Sherlock had gone stock still, eyes unblinking, shifting.

“What . . .”

“You lost a bet. You dyed your hair because of a wager.”

“Yes, that’s right. God, how do you DO that?” John shook his head at this wizardly being who plucked information straight from the air. “I bet some rugby mates that Arsenal would beat Manchester that year. They didn’t of course, and my forfeit was colouring my hair. God, the old man nearly . . .” John cut himself off, forcing a chuckle.  He cleared his throat. “Well, I appreciate a lift in such a brilliant automobile, thank you.”

“No, it’s fine. I need to go to the shops anyway.”

“Ah, good.”

John allowed himself a moment of pure masculine pleasure as he sank into the deep leather seat. He watched avidly as Sherlock revved the motor to life, and shifted the car into gear, twisting his long neck to look back as he reversed them onto the drive.  John gave him directions to Harry’s, and Sherlock looked for traffic before pulling out onto the main road.

The car hugged the curves beautifully even if they couldn’t get it up to any kind of speed on the small country lanes. John sighed, almost envious of the leather-bound stick that Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around to shift gears.  God, he was as exquisite as the finely-tuned machine purring under them. _I am so fucked_ , John thought wryly, smiling soppily when Sherlock slanted his ocean-coloured eyes his way.

They talked a bit of John’s school days, John telling Sherlock tales of the ancient Skoda a friend of his had suffered through. The old car had rattled along, barely taking them where they needed to go, holding on with a spit and a prayer. John enjoyed the easy conversation, watching the scenery slide by. It all looked especially lovely when seen from the window of an Aston Martin with a gorgeous man by his side. Somehow they managed to pull up outside Harry’s terraced house without discussing anything of importance.

“Sherlock, I . . . I really wanted to thank you. For having me over. I wondered if . . .” John stumbled.   _God why was this so hard?_ “That is I was hoping, we could . . .”

“Come over for dinner,” Sherlock blurted, his face looking suddenly much less stoic.

“Oh, yeah, I’d love that.” John licked his lips. “Oh, no, I promised Harry I’d make dinner. Tomorrow?”

“Ugh. I’ve got a thing.” Sherlock flapped his hand. “I’m doing a presentation at the Beekeepers Association.”

“Saturday.” John raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve got another farmers' market, this is my busy season.” His lovely mouth turned down.

“In the evening?”

“I’m staying over. It’s in Penshurst.”

“Ah, so Sunday . . .”

“Yes, definitely. I’ll pick you up.”

“Good,” John sighed. “It’s a date.” As least he wasn’t getting out of the car without a promise to see this bewitching creature again.

“John, I . . .” Sherlock looked at a loss as to what to say next.

“Yeah, I know.” The idea of saying good-bye felt like a visceral pain deep in John's chest.

He leaned over the middle console and caught Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, wrapping a hand around his upper arm to keep them steady. Sherlock pressed in, reaching for John as his lips parted, inviting him even closer. With a moan, John dived in, a simple good-bye kiss turning into something wilder and much more wicked. John moved his hand to cup the back of Sherlock's skull as their tongues met, feeling as if he were dissolving, lost in the taste and touch of this gorgeous, wonderful man. When they finally parted, Sherlock looked fantastically mussed, ripe for being spirited back to bed. John groaned. He had to go.

“Can I call you?” John breathed.

“Oh, yes, please.” Sherlock fumbled a moment, finding his phone so they could exchange numbers.

John sent Sherlock a text just to confirm he had it right. The mobile shivered as Sherlock thumbed on the right screen.

_Miss you already._

Sherlock smiled. Of course John had to kiss that smile again.

Finally, finally, John dragged himself from the car reluctantly, holding a hand up in farewell. Sherlock had his window down, watching him go.

“John!” Sherlock stopped him.  “Your cane.”

“God, right.” John turned back.

Sherlock reached down to retrieve the thing from the floorboard. He passed it through the opening to John’s waiting hand.

“I miss you already too.” Sherlock smiled softly.

“God, you beautiful man.” John leaned down to kiss Sherlock in the car, letting his fingers thread into that mane of dark curls one last time. Sherlock was a delight that John only managed to tear himself away from with herculean effort.

“I’ll see you Sunday.” Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah. Bye.” John moved back. He waved, rooted to the spot, unable to leave until Sherlock set the car into gear, and roared off down the sleepy lane, startling some pigeons on the pavement.

John sighed and turned to make his way up to the door. He was almost there when he looked up and spied Harry in the front window, boggling at him, her eyes as wide as saucers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to make a note that I am referencing a real book in the story that I read many years ago "Timothy and Two Witches" by Margaret Storey. Unlike John however, I didn't memorize it, and I've played a bit fast and loose with the details. Hope this won't bother any fans of this delightful little tale.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly there isn't actually an Ikea anywhere around the East Dean area. I found plans for an upcoming Ikea to be built somewhere in Sussex, but so far, nothing seems to be done. In this AU, however, there IS an Ikea because I went to one recently, and I love Ikea, and I felt the need to add Ikea to this fic, and just Ikea. Hope you enjoy! ;)

)0(

John trailed after Harry, past the stacks of flat packs as she looked for aisle 21. He’d come with her to IKEA as promised, but he’d steadfastly refused to talk about Sherlock other than to give her the man’s name. _(Name, rank, and serial number, soldier, nothing else.)_ When his sister finally located the set of shelves she wanted, John dutifully helped her haul the box down off the stack and onto her dolly cart.

“Oh, look, at that fantastic _coffee table_!” Harry veered off toward another display.

“You asked me not to let you buy anything else,” John grumbled, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He hadn’t brought his cane along, and his leg was starting to bother him again. At least the shoulder was better.

“Right, right.” Harry returned to push the cart toward the cashier. Somehow, despite John’s best efforts, they still managed to pick up two bars of chocolate, a package of candles, and a green plastic strainer before checking out.

John helped Harry get the big box into the boot of her car before she dragged him back in for a bite at the café. They made their purchases, and found a small, open table to share.

“Damn, I love these cinnamon rolls,” Harry sighed, sinking her teeth into the pastry.

John grunted a reply and reached for his coffee.

“I mean they’re utter crap, but I can't get enough of them. They must sprinkle them with crack." Harry shrugged. "So, when did you start fucking men?”

John nearly choked as his coffee went down the wrong pipe.

“Jesus, Johnny, get a grip.” Harry passed him a napkin.

“God, you don’t mince words do you?” John sputtered when he could breathe again.

“Well, you aren’t telling me fuckall. Come on, man, spill.” Harry reached for her own cup, her dark eyes watching him closely over the rim. “I told you when I ate out Mandy Fischer for the first time.”

“Don’t remind me.” John made a face. He sat and thought a moment, blowing out a breath. “Yeah, well, alright. It was a gradual thing, kind of behind the scenes. I think it started with fancying Brian on the rugby team.”

“Wow.” Harry sat back. “Could you not have said something earlier? God, Dad gave me such crap when I came out, and there you were, Mr. Perfect, playing manly rugby, going out with Samantha Lewes with the huge . . .” Harry cupped her hands over her chest, “ . . . tracts of land.”

John blushed. “I didn’t know, yet, okay? It was confusing, and with Dad being such a bloody wanker all the time . . .”

Their parents had never been terribly progressive, and Dad being an angry drunk hadn’t helped matters. After John’s mother had succumbed to liver cancer, their father’s drinking and raving had only gotten worse. John had felt so _impotent_ as a boy. He’d clawed his way into both medicine and the army, looking for something to hold on to. Fat lot of good that had done him.

“Yeah, he was a wanker.” Harry blew out her own breath.

“I liked girls too, and that was . . . so much easier. It was expected. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Leave me as the great stonking queer in the house?” Harry lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m sorry for that, Harry.” John felt like a coward of the worst sort.

“Oh God. It’s okay.” Harry pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You took enough shit from Dad as it was. It probably would have killed him sooner to have a queer son.”

John snorted.

By the time his father drank himself to death, neither he nor Harry had spoken to the man in years. It was hard to feel anything other than relief when they got the news, followed by a wash of guilt over how unconcerned he was. Old bastard.

“So, what’s he like, this Sherlock?” Harry tipped her head to the side.

“God, he’s fantastic.” John couldn’t help babbling about Sherlock for several minutes as the smile widened across Harry’s face.

“Christ.” Harry shook her head. “You sound really into this guy.”

“Well, it’s not like I know anyone else out here.”

“True, but I thought if you were going to pick someone up, they’d have big tits. God, your girlfriends gave me spank bank material for years.”

“Oh, HARRY. TMI, okay. I don’t need to hear about your wanking history.”

Harry shrugged “Just be careful, okay?”

“There’s no snipers shooting at me in East Dean, how bad can it be?” John reached for the cinnamon bun Harry had insisted he buy.

)0(

Like a bloody teenager, John spent Sunday afternoon debating over what to wear to dinner. He pulled on a plaid shirt with a deep blue that matched his eyes. It was his fourth one to try on.

Sherlock had sent John a text on his way home from IKEA with a picture attached of a decomposing body.

_Medical opinion – is the rash on the back due to an allergic reaction?_

_Sherlock what is this?_ John typed back.

_A case needing solving. I just received information from the Yard. What do you think? Allergies?_

_Probably not. It looks more like dermal abrasions, possibly sustained postmortem._

_My thoughts exactly. Thank you._

John chuckled and refused to tell Harry what the conversation had been about, shutting down his phone when she tried to grab it and look at the screen.

A few hours after, Sherlock sent John a close-up picture of a bee, and then asked him what his favorite type of food was, and if he enjoyed wearing natural fibers. John sent a picture of himself in an apron cooking dinner, and a shot of the chicken marsala. Later, Sherlock texted a picture of his half-buttoned shirt and long, pale neck. John almost knocked his water glass off the table.

“JOHN, for God’s sake, can you put the phone down, and just have dinner? Christ, I sound like my mother.” Harry dropped her head into her palm.

“I think it’s sweet.” Clara smiled, the dimples in her round cheeks showing. “You called me all the time when we were first dating.”

“Yeah, but he just met this guy. I dunno. John, is this some kind of rebound thing?”

John paled a bit. “It’s not a rebound thing. It’s . . . I don’t know what it is. Could you pass the salt, please?”

John and Sherlock had continued texting, and even called a few times in the intervening few days. Somehow though, seeing the man in person again was different. John hated to admit it, but he was nervous. What if it wasn’t as special as he was hoping? What it they’d sparked as a one off? The fabulous man might come to his senses and realize how very dull John actually was. John adjusted his collar and debated trying a different shirt.

A car horn honked outside, and John nearly tripped over his feet getting down the stairs. Thankfully, Harry and Clara were at the cinema, saving John any awkward introductions as he made his way out the door. John had to stop and catch his breath a moment at the sight of Sherlock’s red sports car sparkling in the sun. God. John almost felt as if he’d conjured the sight of it up from pure wishes. The driver’s side window slid down to reveal the man himself. John jolted to life, and moved to join him, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were even bluer than he remembered, his dark curls hung damply over a fresh-looking white shirt. John couldn’t help grinning as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Hey there.” John leaned in, meaning to give Sherlock a quick peck. 

The scent of his woodsy aftershave washed over him though, and all good intentions went out the window. Their lips met in a bit of a crash. John was half in the man’s lap, positively devouring his mouth when sense returned to him. John made himself pull back. Sherlock started to follow, but stopped himself.

“Erm . . . well . . .” Sherlock blinked at him, looking completely offline. His lips were beautifully swollen, and his cheeks flushed. John wanted to kiss him all over again.

“I missed you,” John admitted.

“I missed you, too.” Sherlock’s mouth fluttered up into a smile. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself to awareness. “I thought Italian for dinner. There’s a nice place in Eastbourne you might like.”

“Sounds fantastic.” John settled into the luxurious seat. He could still taste Sherlock on his lips.

Sherlock set the car in motion, slotting it smoothly into gear as he revved it into first. Again, John felt transfixed, watching his long, pale, clever fingers manipulating the gearshift, turning the wheel. They were leaving East Dean, and back on country lanes before John found his tongue again.

“I loved the pictures you sent of the market at Penshurst. The eels were especially interesting.” 

Somehow Sherlock had taken some very artistic shots of dead eels coiled over ice.

“Thank you.”

“Did your sales go well?”

“Yes, they did actually. It’s one of the bigger markets. There’s only one other apiary that sells there.”

“Ooh, bitter rivals?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Hardly. They heat their honey for extraction. It’s not raw at all. There’s no comparison in our product.”

“No, I can see that. Your honey is in a class by itself.”

“Hmmph.” Sherlock preened a bit at that, obviously pleased.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Sherlock frowned at the car ahead of them, barely tottering along well below the posted speed limit. 

Sherlock shifted gears to put on a burst of speed, his face set in concentration as he darted into the other lane to pass. Another car was coming toward them head-on in the other direction. John drew in a quick breath, but Sherlock had roared around the elderly man on his Sunday drive, and zipped back into the proper lane before danger could strike. John felt a burst of heat go straight to his groin. God, he was a caution, this mad thing. John wanted to touch him so badly his fingers itched.

Soon they were navigating the streets of Eastbourne, Sherlock turning confidently along a route familiar to him, pulling into a lot to park. They got out, Sherlock leading the way to a small brick restaurant set amidst some other businesses closed for the evening. “Angelo’s” the sign read.

Sherlock pushed through the door to the sound of bells chiming pleasantly. He held it open for John to follow.

The balding man who greeted them seemed especially happy to see Sherlock, showing them to a table near the front window.

“This man,” he exclaimed squeezing Sherlock about the shoulders, “this man saved me.” He went on to tell a fantastic tale of Sherlock clearing him from a crime with a set of deductions when he wandered past the man’s arrest.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock demurred.

“It was brilliant!” the man countered. “Whatever you want for you and your date, I make it! Let me get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic.”

“Well, you’re certainly popular here.” John smiled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would go on like that. If you want to go . . .” Sherlock had flushed over his cheeks.

“Nonsense. It’s charming.” John flipped open the menu. “So, what’s good here?”

Angelo ended up bringing them a tasting menu, small plates of nearly everything he deemed worthy of his favorite customer, appearing with a bottle of red to accompany.

Sherlock relaxed as they talked, catching up, the topics flitting through classic spy movies (Sherlock hadn’t seen a one,) best ways to murder someone without leaving a trace, the annoyance of traffic on a Saturday morning, and how pants only fit best when they were nearly ready for the rubbish bin.

“God, I’m stuffed, can’t eat another bite.” John groaned, sitting back to rub at his full belly. 

The light had faded outside during their meal, leaving the glow of the candle to dance alluringly over Sherlock’s remarkable features. His pale blue eyes looked almost luminous over the hollows of his ridiculous cheekbones.

“Oh, no, no.” Angelo reappeared at John’s elbow. “Perhaps just a smidge of room? You must try the tiramisu. Just a sliver.”

“Erm, alright, fine.” John didn’t want to disappoint the man.

“So do you bring all your dates here, stuff them into unconsciousness so you can have your way with them later?” John teased Sherlock when they were alone.

“Actually, I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Sherlock said. He might have blushed again, but it was hard to see in the dim light.

“Ah, so I’m the first one to get the royal treatment? I must say I’m feeling pretty chuffed.”

“John, I have to tell you. I don't _do_ relationships.” Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flicking down. "Not my area."

“Sherlock . . .” John really didn’t know what to say.

“No, no, no, I wasn’t inexperienced when I took you to bed.” Sherlock waved off whatever he saw brewing on John’s face. “I just don't do . . . dating . . . romantic relationships.”

“And now you do?” John raised his eyebrows.

“It would seem I do.” A lovely smile curled the side of Sherlock’s lips.

John wanted to kiss it, but the table was too wide. He settled for reaching for Sherlock’s hand by his plate, letting their fingers slide together.

“John, I wanted to ask you something . . .” Sherlock hesitated.

“Yeah, sure, anything.”

“Would you like to move in with me?”

It wasn’t what John had been expecting on a second date.

“Oh, wow . . .”

“I know you’ll be needing to leave your sister’s soon. You’re already getting on each other’s nerves, and you’ll want your own space. You’ll also want to find employment as soon as possible. You’ve too much drive to sit around unoccupied now that your shoulder and leg are better. There aren’t any openings in East Dean for medical professionals, but Eastbourne, which is conveniently reached from my house, has two surgeries that are currently open to a part-time physician joining them. I mention part-time as I’m hoping you’ll be available to accompany me sometimes on cases that I take. I need an assistant, and you are absolutely perfect for the job. I’ve plenty of room, and really it just make the most sense.”

Sherlock stopped when he ran out of air. John looked at him, slightly agog. There were a number of reasons why you didn’t jump right into co-habitation on the second date. Those reasons were matchsticks under the gale of Sherlock’s sound reasoning, and the spotlight of his hopeful, blue gaze. Plus the notion that Sherlock had been researching jobs for John was just . . . precious.

“Erm, yeah, okay.” John smiled.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really, let’s do this.” John nodded more forcefully.

“Alright, then.” Sherlock seemed to inflate, puffing up taller with John’s agreement.

“God, yeah, this is great. A toast.” John reached for the bottle of wine, pouring out the last of it into their two glasses. “To a brilliant new beginning.”

“Beginnings,” Sherlock echoed, raising his glass to touch rims with John’s.

John couldn’t help it. After they’d drunk their wine, he stood, leaning awkwardly across the table to catch Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. Sherlock hummed happily under him.

“Ah, here we go, for the lovebirds.” Angelo bustled in with a slice of cake and two forks. It was John’s turn to blush as he sat back down.

“I really am stuffed.” John looked mournfully at the dessert.

“Always save room for pudding,” Sherlock said. He hadn’t eaten nearly as much as John and he gleefully scooped up a mouthful. “Mmmm.”

John sat transfixed, watching as Sherlock licked cream and cake off his fork. God. John could feel himself getting hot.

“You should have at least one bite, John. It’s delicious.”

“Yeah, sure.” John watched as Sherlock forked up another scoop, and leaned in, holding it out. 

John moved on autopilot, opening his mouth to take the fork between his lips. He closed his eyes as he registered the flavors of chocolate and coffee and sweet liqueur. It was, as Sherlock promised, delicious.

When John looked back up, Sherlock was watching him with mouth half open, pupils blown wide.

“Erm, should we get going?” John smiled softly.

“Yes, yes of course.” Sherlock snapped back to himself.

They demurred on offers of coffee when Angelo swept back by, and though John protested, Angelo refused to accept any money from them, only asking them to come back more often.

“It does the place good to have such handsome men in the window,” he winked.

Sherlock took John’s hand as they left the restaurant, stepping out into the soft, summer evening. They passed another couple arriving at Angelo’s, a woman in a short red dress, and a tall, gangly bloke with an arm at her back. For just a moment, it occurred to John that he didn’t need to feel jealous of seeing everyone walking about in pairs anymore. HE was part of a couple now. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned. Sherlock looked down with a small, crooked smile of his own, and they floated back to the car high on wine, and good food, and the feeling of their hands clasped together.

The drive back was quiet and dreamy, and they put the windows down to feel the breeze blowing over their faces. Sherlock turned onto the drive, and John watched as the house came into view, the warm yellow of a front light beckoning them in. The car crunched to a stop as Sherlock left it parked in front of the house.

“Wait, wait,” Sherlock called as he jumped out, sprinting around the Aston Martin to open John’s door. John slid out as it popped open to a waiting Sherlock.

“Well, thank you, sir.” John reached up to hook a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, rocking up on the balls of his feet to tug him down for a sweet kiss.

“I realize I never gave you a full tour of the house,” Sherlock said sheepishly when they parted. “It’s negligent of me not to show you the place before asking you to move in.”

“Well, it’s not really the real estate I’m interested in,” John chuckled. “I think the company was more the draw.”

“John.” Sherlock’s large hand came up to cradle the side of John’s face. “Still, I should show you the whole house.”

“By all means. I’d love to see it.”

Sherlock whirled around to lead the way up the front walk, John following at a slightly more sedate pace. A chorus of insects simmered pleasantly in the background, seeming to have replaced the hum of the bees, all tucked up for the night. Sherlock produced a key and unlocked the front door, ushering John into the tall foyer quickly to thwart the moths careening around the entryway, batting at the porch light.

Sherlock clicked on some lamps, their pools of light bringing an intimacy to the grand hallway, and led John on a quick peek at the two large front rooms that remained as intimidating as they had at first glance. Moving onward, Sherlock showed him a study farther back, a posh dining room, a guest toilet, and a very human-sized living room complete with a squashy sofa, armchairs before a fireplace, and a sleek wide-screen telly on the wall. Judging by the laptop, and half-drunk cups of tea scattered about, this was a room Sherlock seemed to frequent. They skipped the kitchen and workroom that John had seen before, moving upstairs, where Sherlock led John through the four bedrooms he hadn’t seen, and an upstairs parlour. John couldn’t believe that this extravagant place might actually be his home now.

“I have a maid service come in once a week. I can’t really keep up with all of it on my own.”

“Wow, I should say not.” John whistled at the pink bedroom done up like some Japanese geisha house.

“My Nan liked to travel and bring art home with her,” Sherlock explained.

“Well, this has all been incredible. Thank you for the tour. I’m nearly speechless at this house,” John said as they closed the door behind them.

“It’s just a house.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, maybe to you, you posh boy, but it’s a bit much for me.”

“It is too much?” A frown creased Sherlock’s forehead. “I understand if . . .”

“No, no . . . I didn’t mean . . . anything. No. Show me your bedroom again.” John smiled. “I think that’s been my favorite so far.”

With a grin, Sherlock led John back to the room with his waiting four poster bed. It was just as poncy as John remembered, but the bed was large and soft, and he happily kicked his shoes off, and rolled to the center of it, holding his arms out in welcome. Sherlock climbed into them, sinking down onto John with a sigh. John rubbed his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head.

“God, you amazing man. Where have you been all my life?” John murmured.

“Well, you were off getting shot instead of being in mine.” Sherlock said somewhat grumpily against John’s chest.

“True, I’m sorry about that.” John smiled into his riot of fluffy curls. “But I’m here now.”

“Thank God for that,” Sherlock said, tipping his head up for a kiss.

John smiled as his lips brushed Sherlock’s lovely, plush mouth. A sweet thing quickly turned to molten lava, fire racing through John’s veins as their mouths parted and tongues leapt to twine together. Somewhat frantically they thrust restricting clothes aside, battling with buttons as hungry mouths sought out each new inch of flesh revealed. Finally, finally stripped bare, they rolled back together. John groaned, reaching down for a handful of Sherlock’s sweet, plump arse, a spot that was quickly becoming a favorite resting place of his.

“MMMmm, yes,” John murmured as Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, mouthing at the soft skin under his ear.

Sherlock chuckled deeply, a sound rich as melted caramel, and John let himself fall into it, content to dissolve under the clever sweep of Sherlock’s fingers, and the bliss washing over him.

)0(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for agreeing to beta for this! Hugs and kisses!!! :)


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for offering to beta. I always appreciate the extra set of eyes. I'm clinging to some of my American spellings, but hopefully it will read well nonetheless. Enjoy!

)0(

 

John woke on his stomach to light fingers stroking over his back. He blinked to find Sherlock looming over him, studying him. John realized he was completely bare under the sheets, he’d taken even his vest off the night before. It had been fine in the heat of passion in the dark. Now though, in the harsh light of day, he could just imagine how ugly the gnarled scar tissue looked splayed across his left shoulder.

“Oh, Sherlock, God.” John rolled over, pulling the sheet up higher.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” A crease formed between his lovely eyes.

“No, it’s fine. I just . . . didn’t mean for you to have to see all that.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Why ever not?”

“Are you kidding? It’s horrible. An absolute wreck.”

“John.” Sherlock shifted closer. “How could I possibly be bothered by evidence of how brave you were? Scars are the record of our lives.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” John blew out a breath. He didn’t need to be a wally about this. Gradually he relaxed his death grip on the blankets, allowing them to slide back down.

He let Sherlock study him, his mercurial eyes looking almost silver in the morning light as his gaze raked over John, cataloging him, analyzing every whorl and dip of the hideous scar across his chest.

“You were shot in the back while leaning down, most likely while ministering to a downed soldier.”

“Yeah, spot on.” John drew in a breath. “It was a twelve-year old boy with the gun. I didn’t suspect him for a minute.”

“John.” Sherlock’s cool expression fled as he pulled John against him. “I would never ever have wished for you to be hurt like this, but it brought you to me. You’d still be in Afghanistan if not for this wound.”

“Yeah.” John breathed in the scent of Sherlock’s hair mashed under his nose. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Eventually hunger drove them downstairs to forage for breakfast. Sherlock pulled on some loose-fitting pyjama bottoms, and found a pair of briefs and a shirt from his chest of drawers for John to borrow.

“I don’t mind wearing your pants, love, but I’m going to need to get my own stuff.” John smiled.

“Excellent,” Sherlock clapped his hands together. “I’ve nothing on today. Do you have any large items to move?”

“No.” John shook his head. “Just clothes, laptop, that sort of thing.”

“After breakfast then.” Sherlock nodded.

John was happy to find a few more choices now in the large silver fridge.

“I wasn’t sure what you preferred for breakfast so I got a bit of everything I could think of.” Sherlock blushed.

“Hmm, capers.” John smiled, pulling a small jar from the fridge. “Well, I think a proper fry-up is in order.”

John insisted on being the chef, wanting to impress Sherlock with his cooking skills in thanks for all the food. Sherlock agreed, pink on his cheeks, and slipped off to check on his bees while John got to work. John found a small radio on the countertop, and switched it from the classical station to a pop one he liked as he cracked eggs, and lay bacon and sausages in a pan.

When it was done, John moved to poke his head out the back door, but Sherlock was already there, coming back inside.

“I wasn't too long, was I?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, you're right on time.” John met him with a kiss. “Come on, food’s ready.”

“Well, isn’t this . . .” Sherlock stopped, looking overwhelmed at the sheer amount of food John had piled over the table.

“I know you said you didn’t generally eat breakfast, but we both worked off some calories last night, and I can’t possibly eat all this.”

“No, I’m feeling peckish. This is fine.” Sherlock washed his hands before joining John at the table. “It looks delicious.”

“Ta,” John said, pleased, as they tucked into the meal.

John reached for the ubiquitous jar of honey on the table for his toast. “How are the bees?”

“They’re quite active today. I’ve had plans of doing a detailed study on their levels of production based on how sunny the day is, but I haven’t quite managed to start it yet.”

“Oh, is there a marked difference on cloudy versus sunny days?”

Sherlock launched off on a summary of a recent paper on bee sensitivity to polarized light as John propped his chin on his palm, and tried to follow along.

When Sherlock reached for the honey, John found himself staring as his long, elegant fingers wrapped around the knife to scoop out the amber liquid. Sherlock drizzled it liberally over his toast. As he took a bite, honey dripped down the side of his mouth onto his chin.

“Ah, love, you’ve a spot . . .” John leaned in to wipe the stickiness off with his thumb.

Sherlock swallowed and caught his hand. Lifting John’s thumb, he sucked it straight into the plush heat of his mouth. Fire sparked through John, straight to his cock.

“Oh, God, that feels . . . why does that feel so good?”

“Mmm, you taste fantastic,” Sherlock purred, licking over his thumb to catch each drop of the honey.  “In fact . .  .”

Mischief sparked in Sherlock’s blue gaze. He plunged a finger into the sweet stuff and brought it to John’s mouth, painting over his lips before holding the long digit out for John to lick clean. Gladly, John sucked it down, delighting in the chance to return the favour.

Sherlock’s eyes closed in pleasure as a shiver ran over him. When John released his finger, now wet but less sticky, Sherlock moved in. Shoving John’s chair back he climbed over to straddle the man’s thighs.

“Oof, hello,” John smiled as Sherlock settled his weight.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock drawled, bending to devour John’s mouth.

Long, broad licks across his mouth morphed into sweet little cat strokes until Sherlock moved in for the kill, kissing him deeply with languid, open-mouthed passes. His tongue was sweet, sweeter than honey itself, and John groaned at the taste of fragrant flowers, and summer, and a lapful of Sherlock Holmes snogging him senseless.

“Would you, would you let . . .” Sherlock struggled upright, his eyes at half mast.

“What are you on about?” John mumbled, feeling loose and soft.

Sherlock directed rather than explained, helping John to rise, and pushing his half-done plate of breakfast aside to urge John to lie over the sturdy wooden table.

“Madman . . . what?” John laughed.

“Shhhh.” Sherlock reached over to hook his fingers into the waistband of John's briefs. John lifted his hips a bit to let him slide them down and off.

John was already getting hard, his cock rising as it filled, lifting away from where it nestled by his thigh. He propped on his elbows to watch as Sherlock raised the jar of honey, tipping it to pour a golden thread over his rosy erection, letting the rivulets run over him, pooling into the light brown curls at the base.

“Oh.” John squirmed at the tickling sensation. He didn’t suffer long.

Sherlock crowded in, intent, bending to lick a stripe up the underside of John’s cock.

“God.” John sank back, his head hitting the tabletop with a dull thud.

Sherlock licked over all of John’s cock, no spot left unattended as he caught the sticky stripes with the flat of his tongue, greedily gobbling up the treat. John groaned at the pleasure that shimmied through him. Sherlock scooped up another dollop of honey, dripping from two fingers, that he smeared over the tip of John’s cock. Almost purring, Sherlock lapped over the crown, guiding it into his mouth to take all of John inside, sinking down, sheathing him in wet heat.

“AAaaaaaah,” John stuttered a cry as Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, and sucked back, dragging his tongue underneath.

John slung an arm over his eyes, biting his lip as the sensations rolled over him.  He fairly shook under Sherlock’s clever mouth and fingers holding him, sucking, stroking. It was . . . God . . . it was . . . his senses whited out as bliss overtook him.  John returned to himself, the hardness of the table under his spine making itself known, and a very smug Sherlock leaning over him.

“Oh, that was magnificent, thank you.” John reached out to thread fingers into dark curls, tugging Sherlock down for a kiss. He tasted sweet and bitter mixed together.

“You’re welcome.”

“Please, I want to  . . . you too . . . but not on this damn table.”

“I’m not sure I want honey in the bed.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, you’re sweet enough as is.” John smirked. “Come on, lovely.”

John found his feet, and tugged Sherlock upstairs, where they proceeded to make slow, sensual love with lips, and tongue, and fingers until they were both fully sated, and collapsed in a sweaty mess over the sheets. After a shower, they finally returned to the kitchen to finish their cold food, and quickly tidy up before heading out to Harry and Clara’s.

“I think Old Bessie will do today. More room.” Sherlock nodded toward the white farm truck in the garage.

“Yeah, sure,” John agreed, thinking it might not alarm Harry as much as seeing the Aston Martin again.

John fiddled with his phone as Sherlock moved the sports car into the garage, debating on what to text Harry. He figured she deserved some kind of heads up before they descended on her.  It was Monday and she’d be home. He’d sent a quick text the night before informing her he was staying over, but he’d skipped over the moving-out business. He finally decided to simply leave that information for when he saw her, and typed something short.

 _Hey, on my way, and bringing Sherlock._   John pressed send.

When nothing was forthcoming in reply, John shrugged and pocketed the phone. Sherlock started the truck and backed it out, idling as John opened the passenger door to join him. John smiled once at Sherlock, then shifted to look out his window, watching scenery, his fingers tapping a rhythm over his thigh. When he hadn’t spoken in some time, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“John, is everything alright?”

“Hmm?” John startled out of his reverie. “Oh, yeah, fine. Just fine.”

“Really?” Sherlock shot him a glance with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not having second thoughts about moving in, are you?”

“No, of course not. Sorry. I just . . . haven’t exactly told Harry.”

“You think she won’t approve.” Sherlock said it as a statement, not a question, but John could hear the query in it.

“Yeah, no .  .  . I don’t know. She’s just worried about me.”  John scrubbed a finger nail over a small stain by his knee.

“If you want to wait, we could postpone . . .”

“No, God, no.” John whipped his head around to look at Sherlock. His forehead was creased into a knot “No, I’m chuffed you asked me to move in. I’d like nothing better.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s face lightened considerably.

Sooner than John liked, Sherlock was parking the truck at the kerb outside Harry’s. John pulled out his phone, but Harry still hadn’t replied. He led Sherlock to the front door, ushering him in to the small but tastefully decorated foyer.

“Harry?” John called out.

“Yeah, in here.” His sister’s voice drifted down from upstairs.

“Hey, can you come down?”

 “So you’ve finally decided to drag in at noon . .  .” Harry appeared at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown and pokemon pyjamas. Her eyes widened when they landed on Sherlock. “Oh, hello.”

“Good morning, pardon the intrusion.” Sherlock looked even taller and more regal that usual standing in Harry and Clara’s narrow front hall.

Harry descended the stairs looking almost transfixed.

“Harry, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, my sister, Harry,” John nervously made introductions.

“How do you do?” Sherlock’s manners were beyond impeccable as he took Harry’s hand.

“Good, thanks.” Harry swept her eyes up and down Sherlock. “My God, John, if you were going gay, you certainly went for the cream of the crop, didn’t you?”

“Harry!” John felt a blush flash over him.

“Just how tall are you, luv?” she asked Sherlock.

“Six foot, one,” Sherlock supplied smoothly.

“Yup, that’s our Johnny. Can’t do anything by half.”  Harry snorted. “Tea?”

“It’s not necessary. We just dined.” Sherlock’s rich voice rolled out to fill the beige-walled space.

“Erm, Harry . . .” John shifted nervously. “We just came by to pick up my stuff. I’m moving in with Sherlock.”

Harry looked at John with something like horror. “Alright, we’re definitely having tea now. Come on, sit down.” Harry herded them into the small living room off the front hall.  

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” Sherlock’s gaze moved over the modular shelving unit, the colorful sofa, and bright red arm chair to land on the abstract rug beneath. “It’s very  . . . erm, modern. Quite amazing what results can be achieved on such a small budget, hmm?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose upward at that, but Sherlock missed it, intent on moving forward to inspect the ceramic sculpture of a torso on the shelf.

“Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” John shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking nervously back on his heels.

“Thanks, we like it.” Harry slid her eyes to John. “John, maybe you can help me in the kitchen? With the tea?” She motioned with her head meaningfully.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” John huffed, resigned.

“Here, why don’t you have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” Harry gestured Sherlock to the cushion-encrusted sofa.

Sherlock settled in on the IKEA furniture crossing his legs, looking utterly at ease.

“Hey, we won’t be a moment.” John smiled reassuringly.

“No, no, take your time. I’ve nothing pressing on today.” He reached for Clara’s gardening magazine on the side table.

“Okay, good. Back in a tick.” John followed Harry to the kitchen, trying to steel himself. As soon as the door closed behind them, Harry whirled on him.

“John, what the fuck? Last week you weren’t gay, and this week you’re moving in with some bloke you just met?”  Harry gripped his arms, leaning in so close her sour breath wafted over John’s face. “Are you feeling alright? Who’s the prime minister?”

“Oi, Harry, get off. I’ve not lost my mind.” John pushed her back. “Look, I can’t stay here with you and Clara forever. I need . . . to get on with things.”

“Right, you do, but . . . this is the first bloke to turn your head. Are you sure you want to jump into the deep end like this?”

“I’m a grown man.” John pulled himself to stand a bit taller, irrationally angry that Harry was half an inch taller even in bare feet. “Last I checked I still had power of consent over my own life.”

“Yes, of course you do.” Harry shoved the sleeve of her dressing gown back up her arm irritably.  “I just don’t know about all this.”

“Harry, you don’t have to be in charge of me anymore.” John gentled his tone. “I know I was a right mess when I first got back, but I’m better now. It’s okay.”

“You are better, I know.”  Harry’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Look, I just . . . I need to try this, okay? I need to get out of your guest room, and Sherlock is wonderful. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want you to be happy for me . . . for us.”

“I am, John.” Harry nodded. “I’m simply concerned.”

“I’m fine. Right as rain. And you’ll like Sherlock once you get to know him.”

“I’m sure I will.” Harry’s eyes darted doubtfully back toward the front room.

“Here, let’s get the tea together, or Sherlock will know we’re just standing here talking about him.” John moved to the cupboard.

“Oh, he’s a sharp-looking one. I’m sure he already knows.” Harry leaned in to switch on the kettle.

Once back in the living room, John perched awkwardly at Sherlock’s side, sipping too-hot tea while Harry expertly extracted Sherlock’s life history from him. John was impressed at how much information Harry managed to elicit in just a few short minutes. Sherlock dropped too many sugar cubes into his cup, taking one swallow before setting it aside to answer Harry’s barrage of questions. She had Sherlock waxing poetic about his time in the chemistry labs at Cambridge before finally allowing them to move upstairs to collect John’s things.

“I’m sorry about Harry.” John blew a breath out as he shut the door behind them. “She’s a bit of a pill, but she means well.”

“No worries, John. I’m no stranger to overbearing siblings. I hope I passed the test.”

“Yeah, no, it doesn’t matter. I mean, I hope Harry and Clara will like you, but it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I like you, and that’s all that matters in my book.”

Sherlock pinked up beautifully over his cheekbones. “Thank you, John. I like you too.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled. Now let’s see how quickly we can get out of here.” John glanced at the heap of his discarded clothes in the corner with a wince.

John ended up having to borrow a few boxes and another suitcase from Harry to fit everything he owned. John had no idea he’d managed to amass so many books in such a short time. Soon enough, though, they had everything packed and ready to go.

Harry stopped John as Sherlock moved past them, carrying the last box outside. “So, you’ll call? Maybe we can get together for dinner next week?” Harry had changed into daywear and brushed her hair back into a ponytail.

“Yeah, sure,” John said, hitching the pack higher over his shoulder. “Relax, Har. I’m only moving down the road.”

“I know.” Harry smiled lopsidedly. She trailed after John to the front step.

“I’ll call. I promise.”

“Okay.”

John turned to hug his sister, leaving her on the step to join Sherlock at the truck.

“Is this the last of it?” Sherlock asked, taking John’s bag. His strong arms flexed as he settled the luggage in the bed of the truck, sliding it toward the front.

“Yeah. If I forgot anything, it’s a quick trip back. No worries.”

“Of course. And we do have access to the shops.” Sherlock smiled.

Harry remained, watching as they climbed into the cab, and Sherlock started the vehicle. John turned to wave at her as they pulled away from the kerb, her face a smudge of white against the dark door.

“I believe your sister imagines I’m taking you off to be butchered.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered over the rear view mirror.

“Oh, she’ll be okay.” John shrugged, facing forward. “It’s hard with just the two of us now, but she has Clara. She’s fine.”

“And I have you.” Sherlock reached for John’s hand beside him, threading their fingers together.

“Yes. God, yes.” John’s grin felt like it might split his face in two.

 

)0(

 

Sherlock hesitated as they stepped inside Holmes Manor with the first load. He shifted the box in his arms, glancing nervously up the staircase before returning his gaze to John.

“John, I had thought we might share my bedroom, but then I realized I hadn’t actually _asked_ you, and you might want your own space. You could chose one of the spare bedrooms to be your own if you liked, there’s certainly enough of them. Also, we could convert the upstairs parlor into a study if you were interested  . . .” Sherlock’s brow twisted into a crease. “I’m sorry. I confess I didn’t think this quite through.”

“Sherlock, relax, it’s fine.” John smiled. “I’d love to share your bedroom, but maybe we could store some of the stuff in another room just to keep it out of the way?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s face cleared.

That hurdle jumped, they proceeded to carry John’s things in from the truck, piling the boxes in the blue bedroom across the hall, but dropping the clothes in Sherlock’s room. A few of the sealed boxes were things from John’s childhood, stuff he hadn’t looked at in years. Harry had taken on the horrid job of clearing out their father’s flat after his death while John was still in Afghanistan. John was amazed that the man had kept anything from that earlier time, but Harry had set aside the stuff she thought he might want.

John stood surveying the small pile of things now in the spare bedroom, hands on his hips. He’d have to figure something more permanent out later, but for now, just shoving it all against the wall seemed good enough.

“This looks old.” Sherlock knelt down by a box that had slipped open in transit, one of those holding his books. Sherlock smiled as he held up a tattered, thin paperback.  “Timothy and the Two Witches” the cover read.

“Ah, that one.”  John took it from him, rifling through it. “That was one of my favorite stories when I was growing up.”

“What’s it about?” Sherlock stood, dusting off the knees of his trousers.

“It’s about a boy who has to go live with a family friend and he’s dreading it, only she turns out to be a witch and have a magic garden in her back yard. I loved it.” John could have told Sherlock then about the story reminding him so much of the grand house they stood in, but suddenly that felt much too silly. “It seemed so much nicer than my house,” he ended lamely.

“I was partial to ‘Treasure Island’ growing up,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“If you must know, I fancied myself something of a pirate.”  Sherlock looked a bit sheepish. “I use to stomp about with a wooden cutlass, my wellies, and a tricorn hat my mother bought me.”

“Oh, I can see you now,” John cooed. He dropped the book atop the open box to advance toward Sherlock. “I bet you were fierce.”

Sherlock snorted. “I terrorized the local grouse population more than anything.”

John laughed. He reached out to hook a finger through Sherlock’s belt loop, tugging him closer. “God, tell me there are pictures.”

“I’m sure my mother has something.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder carelessly.

“Mmm, good.” John pulled Sherlock close enough for him to capture his beautiful lips in a sweet kiss.

Later, they moved back to the main bedroom for Sherlock to show John where he might put his clothes and things into the drawers and cupboard space that he’d cleared for him.

John smiled when he unpacked a bottle of massage oil. “Well, I didn’t have much use for this earlier, but we might use it  . . . together?”

“Cinnamon heating oil?” Sherlock read the label over John’s shoulder.

“Harry gave me this . . . for my shoulder, and leg. I can think of a better use for it though.” John leered.

“I can think of several myself,” Sherlock’s eyes shone with a wicked glimmer.

They had talked earlier of going out to dinner, but plans were quickly derailed. John delighted in a chance to have a naked Sherlock under his hands, sprawled out over the bed. He delighted in rubbing the oil over his long back and gorgeously squeezable rear. Eventually, Sherlock insisted it was John’s turn, and taking his job seriously, dug in, working out all the knots in John’s sore shoulder. He almost wept from the pain of it, but Sherlock ended the session by flipping John over for a mind-numbing blow job that made it all better. After a shower, and another round of lovemaking, it had gone quite late. Dinner ending up being a hasty beans on toast in the kitchen, but no one had any complaints.

)0(

 

John woke to the sounds of Sherlock moving around in the bedroom still shrouded in darkness by the heavy curtains. Sherlock cursed softly when he barked his shin on the leg of a small table.

“Whazzat?” John lifted his head. It wasn’t that early, but it wasn’t too late to still be in bed on a day with no obligations.

“Sorry, I woke you. You don’t need to get up.” Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks. “I, however, need to pop down to the post office. It seems that something I ordered has been held up on some bureaucratic nonsense, and I need to go down in person to sign for it.”

“Oh, okay. I could come with you.” John rubbed at the grit in his eyes, trying to wake up. There was something so restful about Sherlock’s bedroom. It was like a river of slumber that pulled John under.

“No, please, this will be nothing but tediousness. I’d rather think of you here naked in bed waiting for me to return.”

“Alright.” John smiled sleepily at him.

“There, good man. Go back to sleep and I’ll be back before you know it.” Sherlock leaned in to drop a quick kiss to his lips.

John pressed up, trying to deepen the chaste peck, but Sherlock was too clever, and pulled back before John could lure him down.

“Keep the bed warm. I won’t be long, I promise.” Sherlock patted John’s hip through the duvet.

“Alright, see you soon,” John mumbled.

He let himself sink back into the soft mattress, listening with half an ear as Sherlock moved down the stairs and out the front door.  Sadly, though the bed was comfortable, much of its appeal was lost with Sherlock’s absence. John punched at his pillow, and rolled over a few times before giving up on going back to sleep. After a nice hot shower, he pulled on Sherlock’s blue dressing gown hanging up on the back door of the loo. His were still packed somewhere, and it was much more fun to wear Sherlock’s anyway. John had to roll back the sleeves to fit comfortably, but it made him feel enveloped, taken care of in some way.

John was humming pleasantly to himself as he made his way down to the kitchen, pushing open the door to stop in surprise when he found someone already there.  A spry, older woman with a short cap of brown hair was bustling about the kitchen, tidying up the mess they’d left out the night before.  His slight shock passed when he realized she must be part of the cleaning staff Sherlock had mentioned earlier.

“Good morning,” John said pleasantly.

The woman whirled about. “Oh, dear.” A hand flew to her chest. “I didn’t see you there, luv.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll come back later if you’re busy.”

“No, no, of course not. I’m sure you could use a cuppa to start the day. Maybe a spot of toast?”

“Oh, certainly, but I can do that.”

“No, it’s no bother, sit, sit.”  The woman ushered him to a chair as she moved to turn on the kettle.  “Aren’t you a handsome one?”

“Thank you.” John felt himself blush.

She popped some bread into the toaster, and turned around, leaning against the countertop to better regard him.

“So, are you from the area, dear, or just here on holiday?”

“I’m back from service. Home from Afghanistan.”

“Oh, a SOLDIER.” The woman clapped her hands in delight. “I can see why he brought you home. Have a nice night, did you?”

John squirmed a bit in his seat, starting to wonder at how nosy the cleaning staff seemed to be. “Yes, thanks. I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Oh, so sorry dear, Mrs. Hudson, I live next door, and you?”

“John. John Watson. So you live next door, and you’re part of the cleaning staff?”

 “No, of course not.” She waved the idea away. The toast popped up and she moved to retrieve it, gathering things for the table.

“I’m sorry, you’re not part of the cleaning staff, then?” John frowned in confusion, feeling as if he’d stepped into the middle of a conversation already in progress.

“No, no. I just pop round some times, check up on things. I make jam, and I always have so many extra jars, I often drop by to trade honey with Sherlock.”

“Oh, alright. He’s out just now . . .”

“Yes, I passed him on the drive. Off to the post office. He forgot to mention you, but then he’s like that. Head in the clouds.” Mrs. Hudson moved things to the table, placing a cup of tea by John’s elbow. “Milk?”

“Yes, thanks.”  

The woman, who was it seemed merely an overly-helpful neighbor, placed the milk and toast by John, alongside a pot of thick red preserves.

“So did you meet in a club? I used to love to go dancing. I’d be out till dawn back in the day.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, sitting down with her own cup.

“No, we actually met at the Farmers' Market.” John struggled to keep up. He decided he might as well eat while dealing with the friendly but slightly barmy neighbor. He helped himself to a spoonful of the new jam, spreading it over his toast to take a large bite. “Mmmm, this is delicious.”

“Thank you, dear. Aren’t you polite? Servicemen, always so polite. I could have done with a bit more politeness in my day. But then it’s always the naughty ones that catch your eye first, isn’t it?” She winked at him over the rim of her cup.

“Yes, I suppose so,” John agreed weakly.

“I don’t mind telling you, you’re not at all like Sherlock’s usual picks. You’re just lovely, dear.” She reached out to pat his arm.

“Ah, well, that’s good.” John cleared his throat. “Listen, thank you so much for the jam. It’s delicious. So kind of you to drop it off. I don’t mean to keep you, though, if you’ve other things to do? At home?”

“Oh no, I’m in no hurry. So do you have your own car, or should I call you a cab? No sense in hanging about with himself gone. Who knows when he’ll be back. You might as well head home." The woman had pulled a mobile out of her pocket to look expectantly at John. “It’s alright, luv. So many of Sherlock’s friends don’t come with cars.”

“Erm, no, I am home actually. Just moved in, in fact.” John scratched at the back of his neck wishing he had something on other than Sherlock’s slippery dressing gown barely covering his modesty.

“I beg your pardon?” It was Mrs. Hudson’s turn to look confused.

“Right. Sherlock asked me to move in. We just brought my stuff over yesterday.” John could feel his hackles starting to rise.

“Goodness. Do you think that’s wise, dear? How long have you known each other?”

“A few weeks . . . listen, I’m sorry, but I have some things to do this morning. Perhaps you could come back at a better time? When Sherlock is here?” John stood, moving toward the back door as he tugged the belt on the dressing gown a bit tighter.

“Perhaps I should just call Sherlock . . .” Mrs. Hudson waved the phone.

“By all means, please do . . .  perhaps from your house? I’m sure we can have you back over sometime. For dinner? I’ll let Sherlock know you dropped off such nice jam.”

John opened the back door, and stood politely, waiting.

Mrs. Hudson rose to her feet, looking flustered. “I could clean the tea things before I go . . .”

“No, it’s fine, really. I’ve got it. Don’t worry.” John smiled tightly.

“Alright, then.” Mrs. Hudson dithered, clearly uncomfortable with leaving John alone in the house.

“Thank you so much for stopping by.” John held his ground, pulling the door open a bit wider.

“Yes, then, good-bye . . . John, was it?”

“Yes, John. Thank you. Good-bye.”

John only breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the woman’s car disappear down the drive from a front window. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t as up on country living as he’d thought. Shaking his head, he went back to the kitchen to tidy up.

 

)0(

 

John was dressed and unpacking some clothes to music from his ipod and speakers when Sherlock called up the stairs.

“JOHN?”

“Up here!”

Sherlock bounded up the steps to join him in the bedroom. He appeared, looking a bit windblown, holding a box between his hands. He must have driven with the windows down John thought fondly, already wanting to go to him and smooth his wild curls down.

“So, that’s the important thing from the post office?” John nodded.

“It is. Come and see.”

John put down the trousers he was trying to thread over a hanger to take a closer look.

It was a small wooden crate about the size of a shoe box with screens on each side, and a distinct buzzing within.

“Oh, it’s bees,” John said.

“I’m starting a new colony. I ordered it a few months ago, and it finally arrived. They were meant to bring it to the house, but the local postman refused to deliver it. Said he was allergic.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Clearly they’re contained.”

“Aren’t they . . . sweet.” John smiled, more entranced with the light dancing in Sherlock’s eyes than the box of insects.

“John, do you mind? I want to go get them settled . . . I’ll be out back for awhile.”

“No, of course, love. Go, get your bees sorted. I’m still unpacking here.” John gestured to the tangle of clothes he had piled on the bed.

“Good. I’ll see you in a bit.” Sherlock darted forward to drop a kiss to John’s lips, then dashed back off.

John shook his head, and went back to putting his things away in the cupboard. He reached out to touch one of Sherlock’s shirts hanging to the side, fondling the smooth cotton between two fingers. He wondered just how much the thing had cost. _Christ, but Sherlock was a posh one._

 

)0(

 

“I had a visit from a friend of yours this morning.” John watched as Sherlock drove the car, his long, beautiful hands turning the steering wheel deftly as they hugged the curves on the country road.

“Who?  . . .” Sherlock crinkled his brow. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. She called twice this morning and I let it go to voicemail. John, I’m sorry. I thought she’d come and go before you got out of bed.”

“No, I met her in the kitchen. She was an old dear, bit leery of me though. Seemed to think I was about to carry off the good silver or something.” John chuckled.

Sherlock made a rude noise. “I’ll speak to her. I’m sorry. She’s been around the house forever. Her mother was best friends with my Nan.”

“She seems very protective of you.”

“If my father had taken more of a shine to her, she might have been my mum.” Sherlock smiled wryly. “She’s known me all my life. She’s not to be rude to you, though.” Worried eyes flickered briefly off the road to John.

“No, no. I definitely got the sense that she meant well.” John thought a moment. “So, did you bring a bit of rough back to the house often, then?” He was teasing, but he definitely wanted to know the answer.

“Oh, GOD, Hudders! It was the one time . . .” Sherlock clutched at the gearstick as he downshifted around a turn. “It’s been ages since we had any trouble.”

“So you did that? Picked up men a lot?”

Sherlock blew out a breath. “John, just because I play the hermit out here doesn’t mean I lived like a monk.”

“Of course not, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, boyfriends should know these sorts of things about each other. You’ve every right to ask. I used to cruise the bars in Brighton, pick men up on weekends. I even brought a few home until we had one try to make off with a few of my Nan’s antiques. Hudders caught him loading up the back of his Honda.”

“I bet she was fierce.”

“She had the police out here before he knew what hit him.”

John laughed. “It’s good to have someone like that at your back.”

“Well, she needn’t be watching you,” Sherlock said, frowning again. “Anyway, I haven’t pulled anyone in ages. It all started to seem rather pointless.”

“Until you met me at the Farmers’ Market?” John tamped down a smile.

“Until you.” Sherlock sent John a side-eyed look. “I could tell you were special.”

 “Well, I thought you were bloody GORGEOUS. Couldn’t believe my luck when you asked me over. Still can’t believe it some days.”

“John.” Sherlock placed a warm hand on John’s leg. “I’m the lucky one.”

John felt a lump rising in his throat. He reached over to place a hand over Sherlock’s. Sherlock turned his palm up, and they held hands until Sherlock had to change gears as they slowed to enter the lot for the grocery. John grinned at the turned heads as they exited the Aston Martin. It wasn’t the usual thing you saw outside a shop in Eastbourne. They could have taken Old Bessie, but Sherlock knew how much of a thrill John got from watching him drive the sports car.

Shopping had never been one of John's favourite tasks, but somehow pushing the trolley along the aisles with Sherlock was an experience unto itself. Sherlock either peered at the labels for five minutes to determine the best brand to buy, or dashed off on a whim to grab treats he thought John might enjoy. At the fish counter, the woman asked if she could help them.

“Get the haddock, John, it cooks up better than cod,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s shoulder before skipping off to look at another display.

John dutifully placed the order, watching as the worker selected and weighed several fillets.

“Here you go, sir, two nice pieces of fish for you and your man.” The woman smiled as she passed him the wrapped parcel. For some reason this warmed John’s heart enormously, and he was grinning when Sherlock reappeared with a bottle of mixed spices.

“What’s so amusing?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“Nothing. Just you, us. It’s nice to be out shopping together.”

“Oh, yes. I agree.” Sherlock’s face softened to something lovely, and John had to tug him down for kiss right there in front of the iced shellfish.

When they were finished, and at the cashier, Sherlock insisted on paying, whipping out his card for the chip and pin machine. It reminded John that he needed to find work soon if he wanted to contribute more to the household.

“John, don’t worry.” Sherlock caught him with a knowing look. “You’ll find work soon, and I don’t mind paying for things. It’s mostly my grandmother’s money. It’s not like I did anything to earn it.”

“Yeah, alright, still I don’t really want to be a kept man.”

“You could be. I could keep you locked up in the house and forbid you to wear clothes. Except maybe a frilly apron.”  Sherlock shot him a wicked glance. “Then you’d be free to service my sexual needs whenever required.”

The woman in line behind them gave a shocked gasp, and John felt a blush rising over his face. “Sherlock!” he hissed.

“Ooh, perhaps _I_ should be the one in the frilly apron?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Alright, behave, you.” John poked him in the side, feeling a giggle bubble out of him.

“Oh please, if people are going to eavesdrop, we might as well make it worth their while,” Sherlock said airily as the cashier mercifully handed them the receipt and they were free to go.

Sherlock let John drive home, positively insisting on it. John felt a bit nervous at first, being responsible for such an expensive car, but his joy at handling it soon burned through any misgivings.

“Oh, you beauty,” John crowed, giving the accelerator a burst of speed, glorying at how the powerful engine growled to life. “I could get use to THIS.”

“Hmm, I think I see the appeal," Sherlock purred next to him. “You look so . . . masterful handling the car. I think I’ll definitely need you to fuck me into the mattress when we get home.” He slithered closer over the middle console to nibble at John’s ear.

“JESUS.” John fought to keep the car on the road as his cock swelled under the zipper of his jeans. “Don’t distract me like that.”

“So you won’t?” A pout had worked itself into Sherlock’s voice.

“I most definitely will, you mad thing. Just let me get us home in one piece first!”

Sherlock moved back, content to abstain from molesting John until he was no longer driving. As soon as he had the car parked in front of the manor though, John turned, grabbing Sherlock into a searing kiss. Somehow they managed to haul the groceries inside and get them put away in record time, even though Sherlock kept grabbing at John’s arse, derailing his best efforts.

“Okay, stop that. The ice cream won’t keep if it’s not in the freezer.”

“I won’t keep much longer,” Sherlock stuck out his lower lip in such a completely captivating way that John had to kiss him for several minutes against the kitchen wall.

“Oh, fuck the fruit,” John growled, mouthing along Sherlock’s jaw.

“No, fuck me,” Sherlock breathed.

“God, yes!” John agreed.

With most of the perishables secured, they raced each other up the stairs to bed. Sherlock undid the top two buttons of his shirt as he cleared the door, pulling it straight over his head to flutter to the floor. John sucked in a breath at the long curve of his alabaster back revealed, watching transfixed as he unbuckled his belt.

_God he was a looker, how John had the right to touch this man . . ._

Sherlock bent, shoving his trousers and pants down, uncovering his even more delectable arse as he stepped delicately out of his clothes.  Efficiently stripped, Sherlock crawled on all fours to the center of the bed, arranging himself artfully across the duvet.

“Joooohn . . .” Sherlock beckoned him with half-lidded eyes.

John nearly hurt himself getting his clothes off. Finally he managed to hop out of his last trouser leg to join Sherlock on the bed.

“God, you gorgeous man.” John was over him in an instant, sinking into Sherlock’s embrace, dropping kisses over his face.

Sherlock rippled his spine, arching up into John, returning the kisses that landed on his mouth with fervor. John reached down to sink his fingers into the curve of that plump arse that had tempted him so many times earlier. God, every time the man bent over he had . . . thoughts.

John let his mouth wander, devouring along the line of Sherlock’s neck, licking over his chest down to the treasure trail of sparse hair until he found himself presented with Sherlock’s hard, weeping erection without quite meaning to have arrived there. Happy enough with his destination, though, John slipped the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, humming as he swallowed him down.

“John, Joooohn . . .” Sherlock moaned under his caresses, arching his back, burying his fingers to John’s scalp as he writhed. “No, wait, don’t want to come yet . . .” Sherlock pulled at John’s hair to get his attention. “Please . . .”

John pulled off slowly. “Yes, beautiful, I remember.”

“In the drawer . . .” Sherlock had his eyes closed, but he flopped an arm in the direction of the bedside table where they kept supplies.

Hating to leave a naked, flushed Sherlock even for an instant, John tore himself away for the greater prize of a tube of lubricant and a condom packet a few meters away. He returned quickly, popping open the bottle to coat his fingers with the slippery gel.

“Here, is this what you need, love?” John slipped the back of his wet hand along Sherlock inner thigh, expertly parting his buttocks with his other, spreading him to find the sweet pucker within.

“Mmm, please.” Sherlock’s eyes when he opened them were dark pools of want.

John nudged against the rim, gently inserting two slick fingers, sliding in and up. Sherlock groaned, a deep rumble of a sound, accepting the intrusion. It was moments like this John blessed his medical experience. Using his knowledge of anatomy to locate the sweet spot, he curled his fingers to press against Sherlock’s prostate. The man shuddered beautifully under him, babbling random sounds as John rocked him from the inside out.

They’d done this before, fingered each other several times, but penetration was a new idea. It had seemed like too much prep work when all they wanted to do was pounce and devour each other instantly. John needed this first time to be perfect. He pumped his fingers leisurely, driving Sherlock to a fevered pitch, gripping his hip to anchor him as he spiraled.

“John, please . . . now.” Somehow Sherlock’s incoherent sounds had coalesced into actual words.

“Okay, baby, alright.”  John squeezed his hip.

John moved back, finding the packet on the bed. He peeled open the condom, rolling it down over the erection he had almost forgotten about as he focused on Sherlock’s pleasure. He quickly slicked his cock, and moved in to line himself up with Sherlock’s stretched opening, holding his weight on one arm as he eased inside. Watching Sherlock’s blissed-out face for any signs of pain, he sank into the gorgeous welcoming heat. John’s eyes slid closed as he bottomed out fitting himself flush against Sherlock's body. They sighed in unison. John didn’t want to ever move again, but Sherlock bucked his hips impatiently, and John took the hint, pulling himself half out, only to slide back in.

“Oh, GOD,” Sherlock cried, his head thrashing on the bedding beneath him.

“Unngghh!” John had lost all notion of words as he let his body guide him into a primal rhythm, sliding into Sherlock again and again, rolling like the waves of the ocean as the scent of sweat and brine washed over them.

Sherlock reached between their bodies to grasp his erection, stroking himself in time with John's glorious rhythm. With a sweet cry, Sherlock tipped over and came around him, his hole spasming as he splashed warmth between them. It was more than enough to bring John to a roaring orgasm, pleasure pounding through him as he spent his release. It took some time for the world to reassemble. When John could think clearly again, he found himself collapsed over Sherlock, the both of them sweaty and boneless, and stuck together.

“Oh, love.” John kissed what he could reach of Sherlock, somewhere around his collarbone.

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock lifted a hand to stroke over John’s back, a comforting circle.

Eventually John had to move, carefully pulling his softened penis out of Sherlock, tying the condom and dropping it in the bin on his way to the loo. He returned, climbing onto the bed with a wet flannel to clean up.

“John, thank you.” Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes looked as bottomless as the summer sky as John swiped over his cock and belly.

“No, thank _you_.” John bent to drop a kiss to his cheek. “God, I haven’t had this much sex since I was . . . no scratch that. I’ve never had this much sex before.”

“No, me either. Certainly not of this top caliber.”

“Oh, should I be flattered?” John smiled, dropping the cloth to the floor.

“You should have ribbons and awards hung from your neck.” Sherlock stretched luxuriously across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam.  “You deserve a gold medal for epic shagging.”

“Well, I think we’ll have to share those awards, I couldn’t have done it without you.” John slotted himself beside Sherlock, gathering the man against him.

Sherlock curled obligingly over, cocooning John in his long limbs. They might have stayed like that for the rest of the day had Sherlock not pulled back to fix John with a petulant stare.

“John, I’m hungry.” He wrinkled his brow. “I’m hardly ever this hungry.”

“Oh, God me, too, starving. Good sex will do that.” John chuckled. “Glad we stocked up the kitchen.”

“Ugh. I don’t want to bother with _making_ anything. I’m too relaxed.”

“Oh, come on, you can watch me cook. We need to have that fish, it won’t keep long.”

“Will you cook naked?”

“Does your neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, have a key to the back door?”

“She does.”

“I’ll wear something then, thanks.”

“I’ll have the locks changed soon.”

John laughed. “Come on. I am hungry. Move your arse, let’s go.” John shifted to roll off the bed, but Sherlock stopped him, gripping his arm.

“John . . .”

“Yes, sweet?” John waited, watching the serious expression gathering on Sherlock’s face with a small frisson of alarm. “Something wrong?”

“John, I love you.”

“Oh.” John felt as if a small explosion had gone off behind his breastbone. “Yeah. Me too.” He cleared his throat. “I, erm . . . I love you too.”

“Good.” Sherlock leaned in to kiss him firmly on the mouth.

“Yeah.” John smiled. “It’s wonderful.”

As they pulled on enough clothing to head to the kitchen and make something to keep body and soul together, John imagined he could have floated downstairs instead of merely walking so buoyant did he feel. _God, he was a lucky bastard._

)0(


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all the thanks to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for some FABULOUS beta work at a turn-around time almost faster than the speed of light.

 

)0(

 

“Walk away, John,” Sherlock whispered from the side of his mouth.

“What, but I like this one!” John protested, looking at the light green Vauxhall Viva hatchback. It was the best of the lot, and John had already fallen a bit in love with it.

“Trust me.”

“Yeah, alright, fine.” John blew out a breath.

“Thanks so much for your help!” Sherlock pasted on a large, faux smile as he waved at the salesman a few steps away.

Only when they turned, beginning to walk back to where Old Bessie was parked, did the man spring to life.

“Gents, gents, where are you going? This beauty is already a STEAL, but for you, I can bring the price down . . .”

Sherlock flashed John a real smile as they turned back to face the man. John watched with awe as Sherlock proceeded to haggle as smoothly as any carpet seller in a Kandahar market, bringing the price of the vehicle down to something John might actually afford. Well, something he could afford with a borrowed down payment from Sherlock. Soon enough, they were back in the salesman’s office, and filling out paperwork. Sherlock passed the keys to John with a satisfied smirk.

The week had brought a few milestones. John had interviewed at the surgery in Eastbourne that was looking for another GP. He’d been offered the part-time position, just as Sherlock had predicted. It wasn’t a flashy job by any means, but anything that pulled John farther away from the pit of feeling useless he’d fallen into with his injury was a good thing.

Though the Vauxhall was several years old, it had a nice, clean smell when he slid into the driver’s seat.  John turned the key, pleased to hear the roar of the engine as it engaged. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, getting acquainted with his new purchase. They’d already driven it around the corner and back, but a chance to hit the open road felt invigorating. John revved the engine and near giggled.

Sherlock startled him when he tapped on the window.  John found the button and powered it down.

“Follow me home or fancy a drive first?” Sherlock asked.

“Drive, I think. . . . Hey, little boy, want a lift?” John leaned out the window with a silly leer.

“Only if you’re giving out sweets too.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Naw, just kinky sex.” 

“Ah, well, in that case . . .” Sherlock moved swiftly to join him in the passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” John warned with a smile.

Over the last few weeks, Sherlock had loaned John either the truck or the Aston Martin for his physio appointments, even coming along a few times. To John’s chagrin, Jenna, his trainer, spent more time ogling Sherlock perched in the waiting area reading his phone than actually attending to John’s progress. Still, John realized that if he were to commute to a job on a regular basis, he really needed his own wheels.

Sherlock had thrown himself into researching the best car for the lowest price on the market, keenly aware of how John felt about money . . . namely, Sherlock had gobs of it, and John didn’t want to feel like a freeloader using it. In the evenings, as they sat comfortably sprawled in the cozy armchairs in the smaller living room, each busy with their own laptop, Sherlock had occasionally popped up to show John pictures of used cars in the area.

“Look at this one.” Sherlock leaned in, holding his computer so John could see the screen.

“It’s a Skoda. And it’s yellow.” John screwed up his face.

“It’s very affordable, John. I calculated using all of the parameters you stated . . .” Sherlock looked hurt.

“Right, right, I know I said it needs to be economical, but . . . anything but a Skoda, okay?”

Eventually they had settled on the used car lot where they’d found the green Vauxhall.

John navigated carefully down busy streets until the businesses thinned to residential houses, and those dropped away to fields. As the road cleared out, John put his foot down on the accelerator and took off. It wasn’t the Astin Martin, but John felt a certain thrill run up his spine with the knowledge that he was driving _his_ car.  He’d never actually owned his own vehicle before. John glanced at Sherlock as he slowed for an intersection. Sherlock looked as pleased as a cat in the cream.

“Alright, you.” John grinned.  “Where to? I don’t fancy going back just yet.”

“Go left. We could drive near the beach.”

“Oh, yeah. I haven’t been down to the shore properly yet.”

Sherlock made a rude noise. “You’ve been living in Sussex all summer, and you haven’t been to the beach?”

John shrugged. “Enteric fever, my shoulder . . . my leg . . . I wasn’t really up for much when I first arrived.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Sherlock reached over to lay a hand to John’s thigh. John marveled at how it didn’t even hurt any longer.

“No, no it’s fine. Let’s go.” John smiled, and turned the wheel, letting Sherlock direct him until the long dark line of ocean moved into view. They pulled into a lot to park.

The sound of the waves, and the brisk smell of salt greeted them as they exited the car. The view from the top of the cliffs was magnificent, and John stood a moment soaking in the expanse of green downs and rolling blue beyond.

“Come on, there’s some stairs this way.” Sherlock led him past a restaurant, a gift shop, and a long tour bus that flanked the parking area.

There were a number of noisy people flocking about the stairway that took them from the cliffs to the safety of the pebbled beach below. Sherlock urged John onward, leaving the crowds to their picnic blankets, and children and dogs in the surf as they set off along the shoreline.

John smiled, sucking in a lungful of clean air as he worked to keep up with Sherlock. It had been an age since he’d walked by the edge of the ocean like this. The scale was simply humbling. Even Sherlock didn’t seem immune to the effects of the wind and the waves, his eyes shining under inky curls soon tumbled by the sea breeze.

They walked steadily until the other people dropped off, only the cry of the gulls over head keeping them company. John was glad he’d elected to wear trainers that morning, though Sherlock seemed to be doing well enough on the rocky shore in some poncy dress shoes. They stopped a few times to simply admire the view, John taking the opportunity to skip stones into the ocean waves.

Sherlock smiled approvingly “Your talents were wasted on rugby, Dr. Watson. You should have played cricket.”

 “That wouldn’t have been macho enough for the old man.” John snorted. “God, he caught me trying to learn some ballet steps with Harry in her room once. I couldn’t sit down properly for two days.”

“John . . .” Sherlock trailed off, a crease between his brows.

“Aw, no worries. That was a long time ago.” John shrugged it off.

Sherlock nodded, resuming their walk, leading John farther past some large boulders to another section of the beach where . . . several completely nude people waded knee-deep in the water, while a few others relaxed on towels nearby. They weren’t especially buff, some a bit saggy or pudgy around the middle, a mix of men and women. There was nothing out of the ordinary about them, except for the fact that they were completely starkers on a public beach in the middle of the day.

“Sherlock . . . what?” John trailed off trying not to stare at all the humanity, though his eyes stubbornly bounced back to the rosy-tipped breasts, and swinging cocks on display.

“Hmm, what?” Sherlock looked around from where he was studying the cliff face. “Oh, that. It isn’t exactly official, but naturists use this section of the beach at times.”

“Oh, God. Should we be over here?” John’s gaze had landed on a particularly fetching ginger-haired woman, and he couldn’t help noticing how nicely the carpet matched the curtains.

“No, it’s fine. It’s a public beach. Best not to stare though. Makes them uncomfortable.”

“Right, right.”  With a force of will, John managed to call on his professional medical training, pulling his eyes away from all the flesh jiggling nearby.

Several of the bathers seemed to recognize Sherlock and called hello. He waved back amiably as they passed.

They continued on, carefully climbing over another stretch of large rocks to reach a thinner strip of beach beyond. Their destination eventually became apparent as Sherlock led John to a dark crack visible in the craggy white cliff face.

“Oh, brilliant, a cave!” John cried.

“Come on.” Sherlock smiled and ducked inside.

The sounds of the wind and waves dropped off, instantly muffled as John followed Sherlock into the hole. The roof was low by the entrance, but raised slightly as they moved further in, allowing them to stand upright.

“How far back does it go?” John asked, suddenly hushed. For some reason the enclosed space seemed rarefied, like being inside some ancient church. It felt best to kept his voice quiet.

“Not far. I’ve walked it as much as you can, and it generally only takes me twenty minutes.”

“Is it safe?” John breathed.

“Probably not.” Sherlock shrugged, pulling out his mobile to thumb the light on. The beam of light splashed over the rock walls casting crazy shadows. “Fancy a bit of exploring?”

John reached out to touch the side of the cave, it was bumpy and rippled like the waves that had helped shape it. “Yeah, lead on.”

The tunnel moved steadily upward, in parts, more of an uphill climb than a simple walk. John soon found himself panting, his leg muscles screaming in protest. _Damn, he’d let himself get too soft._

“Do you want to go back?” Sherlock glanced at John, concerned, hardly breaking a sweat. “There’s something I wanted to show you, but we can do it another time.”

“Hell, no. I’m fine,” John huffed.

“Okay. It isn’t far now.” Sherlock turned back to press on.

The darkness of the cave began to lighten slightly as they reached a plateau and the path leveled out, much to John’s relief.  After rounding a bend in the corridor, the tunnel widened considerably until they stepped into what could only be called an underground room. The center was pierced by a single shaft of sunlight falling from a small hole high above, giving the whole place an ethereal sort of glow. John gasped. After the closeness of the tunnel, the sudden space and light was almost dizzying.

“What do you think?” Sherlock snapped off his phone light.

“God, it’s fantastic!”

“We found it one summer when Mycroft and I were staying with Nan. Smugglers used to use caves like this throughout the cliffs to bring goods in from France untaxed.”

“Oh ho, I bet THIS is what really started you wanting to be a pirate!”

“Possibly.” Sherlock might have blushed, but in the low light, it was hard to tell. “I read every book I could get my hands on about smuggling in the area.”

“So dashing, so swashbuckling,” John teased.

“I suspect part of my fascination with the smugglers was their great freedom to be out after dark without someone calling them in.”

John smiled as he moved to examine the space. Pieces of driftwood, shells, and some pretty stones had been brought in and arranged in patterns on the floor. One set of stones clearly spelled “FUCK.”

“Tell me that was you!” John giggled as he pointed it out.

“Hardly.” Sherlock came to stand behind him. “Any number of locals know about this cave. It’s popular with the youth.”

“I bet you were adorable, stumping up here in your wellies.”

Sherlock made a rude snort as John turned, pulling him into his arms.

“What was your pirate name? Did you have one?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Never.”

“Blackbeard.”

“I love it.” John tugged Sherlock's head down, urging him into a sweet kiss.

Sherlock was delicious, melting pliantly in John’s arms as the kiss deepened. Warmth pooled in John’s groin, and he thought briefly about taking things further, but the cave floor didn’t look terribly comfortable. Eventually they untangled, breathing a bit harder, but smiling.

“Shall we head back?” John asked. “Unless there’s more to see?”

“No, this is the best of it. The tunnel just peters off a bit past here.” Sherlock nodded in the direction of a narrow passage beyond.

They moved to retrace their steps, Sherlock taking the lead again. It was easier going downhill, and John was feeling better about his physical shape when his foot hit an uneven patch. He cried out as his leg buckled. Sherlock turned quickly, almost dropping his phone in the process. The small light swung madly, leaving them in near dark as Sherlock fumbled with it.

“DAMN it.” John had landed on his hip, hard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock gripped his arm. “Did you hurt anything?”

“Just my pride,” John said ruefully, sucking a breath against the pain now radiating up his leg.

After a moment, when the worst had receded, John allowed Sherlock to help him to his feet. John tested his weight, and found that thankfully he could still walk. They set off at a slower pace, Sherlock watching him like a hawk until John growled at him that he wasn’t completely incompetent.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock agreed, but he still took extra care picking his way through the tunnel as they descended.

John was happy when they finally reached the exit, crawling back into the wind, and the great expanse of sky and ocean stretching away before them. Sherlock kept their walk to a sedate pace as they made their way back along the stone-covered beach to the staircase. The idea of crossing the nudist area again kept John going as he limped onward, but the bathers seemed to be done for the day. Most had cleared out and the few left had donned clothes as they packed up.

Sherlock took an age to ascend the staircase by the cliff, stopping on each landing to admire the view. John might have grown impatient with him if his leg hadn’t still been hurting. Much as he hated to admit it, though his limp had been psychosomatic, walking with the uneven gait for so long had left a weakness on his right side.

“John, it will take some time for you to regain your usual strength and stamina. I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard today.”

Sherlock looked so contrite as they stood pretending to admire this new view of the beach from a slightly higher elevation that John couldn’t stay ill-tempered.

“No, it’s fine. You’re right, I know.” John laid a hand across Sherlock’s back. “I really enjoyed the walk, and the cave, thank you.”

“Sshhhh.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as a family carrying a stroppy toddler passed them on the steps. He leaned in closer to John, dropping his voice. “The cave’s a bit of a secret. Can’t go letting just anyone know about it.”

John huffed a laugh. “Right, sorry, Blackbeard.”

Sherlock leaned in to press a kiss to John’s cheek, and just like that he didn’t mind anymore about his bum leg or falling on his arse like a prat. He was standing, looking at one of the most beautiful places on Earth with truly the most stunning man at his side. Being upset about anything just seemed bad manners.

“Yeah, come here, you.” John curved a hand up over Sherlock’s nape, pulling him in for a proper snog.

It had been nice kissing Sherlock in the cave, but in some ways it was even nicer kissing him out in the open air, breeze in their hair, sun on their backs.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked as they pulled apart.

“Starving.” John smiled, thinking Sherlock’s eyes were even bluer than the sky behind him.

“I know the best place for fish and chips in the area.”

“Fantastic. Let’s go.”

A group of teens chattering in Icelandic streamed past them, and John stepped aside to let them go ahead before waving Sherlock on. They made it back to the Vauxhall, and John was struck again with the happiness at seeing a car that was now his own. Sherlock directed John to a small hole-in-the-wall pub down the road that did indeed serve some of the best fish and chips he’d ever eaten. John doused his portion liberally with the bottle of malt vinegar on the table, and dove in with relish, soon clearing his plate. Sherlock enjoyed his meal, but only managed half, wrapping the rest in a bag to go. Afterwards, John drove them to pick up Sherlock’s truck at the car lot in town to head home. As John followed behind Old Bessie, pulling in to park alongside it at Holmes Manor, he almost had to pinch himself.

_How was this possibly his life?_

John smiled as Sherlock climbed gracefully out of his truck looking long, and lithe, like some kind of jungle cat as he stretched his back. John moved to join him on the front steps, pulling him into a flurry of kisses as he unlocked the door, not letting up as they fumbled the door open, and stumbled into the front hall, half kissing, half giggling.

“John, stop, I need . . .” Sherlock dropped the keys, and bag of food to the floor.

“I need you,” John growled, grabbing his arse with both hands, something he’d wanted to do since they stood kissing by the beach.

Sherlock gasped, abandoning his things in lieu of pulling John closer, pressing the hardness of his erection into John’s belly. John groaned extravagantly.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, they finally broke apart to hurry up to the bedroom. John’s fingers fairly itched to run their way down Sherlock’s lean flank bare of cloth. He was like a drug, this beautiful man, and John couldn’t get enough of him. Later, Sherlock cried out in a broken voice as John pumped them to orgasm in his slick hand, then curled up in John’s arms like a little boy.

“Love you.” John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed deeply as he drifted off, looking so utterly peaceful it nearly broke John’s heart.

 

)0(

 

 John prepared as he could for his upcoming job over the next few days. He was more nervous than he wanted to admit for a supporting GP position. It was his first time practicing medicine after being ignominiously discharged, sick and hurting. He hoped he’d get his old confidence back. Sherlock had taken him shopping for new trousers and a stack of button up shirts in a range of fashionable colours, though John had insisted on several plaids as well.

“Can’t have you looking dowdy, John. How would this reflect on me?”

“I like the plaid.” John had put his foot down. “I can’t wear purple every day.”

“Lavender,” Sherlock corrected.

“Yeah, no. I’m not built like a tall, poncy runway model like some people. Not wearing it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock had huffed, and then sneaked a lavender tie into the pile anyway.

They’d fallen into the habit of going to bed fairly late, but John made a point of going to sleep early the night before his first day at work. Sherlock called from his laptop that he’d be right up, he was in the midst of researching something, but John was still alone when he turned out the lights to go to sleep.

At least he was there the next morning when John rolled over to silence the new alarm clock bleeping by his head. The mop of dark curls peeking out from the duvet beside him roused slightly, but John kissed the man’s forehead and told him to go back to sleep. John smiled as Sherlock murmured something drowsily and burrowed deeper under the covers. Quietly, John dressed himself in a new outfit, and made his way down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. He ate a bowl of cereal, and checked to be sure he had everything before heading out. It felt like the first day of school, and John tamped down the butterflies in his stomach as he started the Vauxhall, moving into the modest flow of traffic that thickened as he reached Eastbourne.

The staff at the surgery remained as friendly as they’d been when he interviewed. Dr. Evan Callum, the senior physician, was a grey-haired old codger who wanted to take John under his wing as a surrogate son. The other GP, Dr. Sarah Sawyer, was a cheerful woman about his own age, and they'd spent the noon lunch break discussing good places to go dancing in the area. Even the nurses and the receptionist set about making him instantly welcome, something John appreciated. Support staff could make or break a job.

John didn’t see any cases more complicated that day than a woman with a pulled back, a teary child with strep throat, and an older man the nurse warned him about who seemed to visit the surgery every other day with a new, imagined complaint. He seemed to appreciate the time John spent with him though, and John felt that all in all, it had been a productive day when he bid everyone a good night.

John put the windows down on his drive back, humming along with the radio as he headed home, eager to see Sherlock again. Surprise washed over him when he found the truck gone, and a sleek black town car in its place in the garage. Wondering if Sherlock had been seized by the impulse to buy yet another new vehicle, John let himself in the front door, calling hello. When no replies were forthcoming, John made his way back to the kitchen thinking a spot tea and a biscuit would be just the thing. He was surprised again to find a refined-looking man in a three piece suit already at the table sipping a cup of tea, a posh platter of pastries at his elbow that certainly hadn’t been in the house that morning.

John stopped in his tracks. “Oh, hello.” _What in the world . . ._

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson.” The man’s mouth tweaked into a smile that somehow managed to stop before reaching his dark eyes. “How nice to finally meet you.”

“Erm . . . how did you . . . ?” John glanced to the back door, “ . . . and you are?” John frowned, trying to catch up.

The man’s eyes raked over John, cataloging, dissecting in a way that left him feeling nearly naked. John shivered. There was only one other man who could do that to him, though he actually enjoyed it when Sherlock spun his magic. This could only be . . .

“Please allow me to introduce myself. Mycroft Holmes. No doubt my brother has mentioned me?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Erm, yeah, he did.” John shifted fractionally realizing he had fallen into a combative stance upon finding the strange man in the room.

Mycroft seemed to relax slightly as well. “Please, sit. Join me. There’s plenty.” He swept a hand out to indicate the tea service laid across the table.

“Alright,” John said warily, taking a chair opposite the man. “Have you seen Sherlock, then?”

“My brother appears to be out at the moment,” he said simply, pouring tea into one of the fragile china cups that Sherlock had used on John’s first visit. Since moving in, John had brought several sturdy mugs along that he generally used when he wanted a quick cuppa. He accepted the steaming cup Mycroft passed him with a nod.

“Bun?” The elegant man slid the platter fractionally closer.

“Yeah, thanks.” John reached past the iced French confections to select an Eccles cake. Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched upward as if John had surprised him.

 “So, what brings you to Sussex, Mr. Holmes? Sherlock said you were based in London.”

“Call me Mycroft, please. And if I could call you, John?”

“Yes, yes of course.” John bit into the pastry irritably, wishing Mycroft would bloody well get to the point. He was growing weary of people acting host to him in his own kitchen.

“It has come to my attention that while my brother often seeks out temporary company, he doesn’t generally buy them cars and invite them to move in with him.” Mycroft leaned closer, lacing his fingers before him on the table. “I felt the need to assess the situation in person.”

Well, at least they were speaking honestly. That was something. Unfortunately, John could feel his temper already beginning to flare. He dropped his cake to his plate as he took a breath to steady himself.

“Look, Sherlock didn’t _buy_ me a car. He lent me the money for a down payment, money that I will pay back,” John said tightly. “I’m not some freeloader. I have a _job_.”

“Indeed, you do, at the Green Street Clinic in Eastbourne. Today was your first day, I believe. How did things go, John? Surely it was a bit beneath the talents of a battle-tested surgeon.”

“Yeah, good, it’s a nice place . . . I . . .” John shook himself. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t need to explain my life to you. I care about Sherlock. I’m not here to . . . steal all your Nan’s collectibles.”  John waved his hand angrily to indicate the house around them.

“Naturally, doctor. Still, Sherlock hasn’t had much of a track record with  . . . longevity. It seems rather inevitable that you will tire of each other soon enough. I thought it might be best to head off any unpleasantness before it arises.” Mycroft reached into an inner pocket to extract a business card. “If you would agree to relocate now and have nothing more to do with my brother, I could see you situated with a meaningful sum of money and a position with a major hospital in say . . . London? Edinburgh? Farther abroad? The area would be up to your discretion, of course.” Mycroft placed the card on the table, sliding it closer to John with a long, spidery finger.

“Bloody hell,” John sputtered. “You can’t buy me off, Mycroft. I’m not leaving Sherlock for _a bribe_. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft shrugged. “Still, the offer stands through the week. If you change your mind, my direct mobile number is on the card.”

“Not interested!” John crossed his arms mutinously across his chest. “Not now . . . not ever.”

“Well, we’ll see how interesting Sussex is when you’re treating yet another mind-numbing runny nose or case of gout.” Mycroft leaned in with a leer. “The odds are . . .”

Mycroft stopped as the clatter of the front door opening reached them. He shifted back as Sherlock barreled into the kitchen carrying a variety of fragrant take-away bags. Sherlock took in the scene at a glance, his face falling.

“Mycroft . . .” the hurt in the one word was enough to make Mycroft flinch. “How could you?”

“Brother . . . I . . .”

Sherlock cut him off to round on John. “It isn’t true, whatever he’s been saying about me.”

“No, sweetheart . . . no.” John couldn’t help moving to Sherlock. He gently took the bags away from him, setting them on a nearby worktop to wrap an arm around his waist. “Hey, I missed you.”

“I missed you . . . too.” Sherlock allowed John to pull him into a brief hug, glaring daggers at his brother over John’s shoulder.

“How dare you come out here and threaten John,” Sherlock hissed as they pulled apart. “He’s not a pawn to be used in some imagined game of yours.”

“I threatened no one.” Mycroft straightened himself a bit higher. “I merely pointed out the situation logically . . .”

“You tried to turn John against me.”

“What I did was for your own good.” Mycroft managed to look haughtily down his nose even though he was sitting and Sherlock standing. “Do you recall how you were when Sebastian left?”

“I’m not a child any more, Mycroft! I don’t fall apart just because someone leaves,” Sherlock spat. “Besides, you’ve no right to extrapolate my relationship with John using unknown variables. There’s no reason to believe that a past relationship going sour predicts the outcome of all future relationships. You can’t . . .”

“There’s every reason to believe that you will repeat past behavior . . .” Mycroft’s voice rose with Sherlock’s until they were soon yelling, volleying heated statistical facts back and forth across the room.

“Past data does not determine incoming information . . .”

“Balance of probability, brother . . .”

“BOYS!” John stepped between them. “Calm down. There’s no reason we can’t discuss this in a civilized manner. It looks like Sherlock’s just come home with dinner. Mycroft, perhaps you’d care to join us as we eat?”

Although the men did not favor each other in looks, they both pulled their upper lips into such identical sneers that John could instantly see the family resemblance.

“He’s not invited, he’ll eat all the naan,” Sherlock complained.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to demur, I do have a previous engagement.” Mycroft shifted back his cuff to consult the expensive-looking watch around his wrist. “In fact, I am already running late. I’ll need to leave you to your . . .” he glanced briefly around, “domestic bliss.”

“Good, don’t let the door hit your fat arse on the way out.” Sherlock reached out to snatch Mycroft’s card from the table, crumpling it up to throw to the floor.

_God, he was ravishing even in his fury, his blue eyes fairly snapping._

“Manners, Sherlock.” Mycroft looked coolly affronted as he rose to his feet, gathering an umbrella and a briefcase that had been sitting on the floor by his side.

“It was, erm, good to meet you.” John stepped closer to extend a hand toward Mycroft, hoping something normal might diffuse the spiraling tension.

With a slightly surprised look, Mycroft accepted John’s hand, clasping it firmly for a quick pump. “You as well, Dr. Watson. I hope you’ll consider what I said, though . . .”

“MYCROFT!” Sherlock growled menacingly behind John.

“Yes, well, I think I’ll be going now.” Mycroft stepped over to the back door, rapping it to summon the man in a chauffeur’s uniform who had obviously been waiting in the garden. The servant nodded politely at Sherlock and John before crossing the room on his way to the front.

“Good-bye.” Mycroft nodded briskly, quitting the room without waiting for a reply.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Sherlock muttered to John as he left too, following them up the hall.

John sighed and let him go, realizing Sherlock wanted to have another word in private. He set about clearing the table of the stilted tea, putting the baked goods in the fridge for later, and unpacking Sherlock’s bags. He was happy to find several containers from his favorite Indian restaurant and a wrapped box from Milly’s cake shop inside. John stooped to tidy up the ball Sherlock had made of Mycroft’s card on the floor. He walked over to the rubbish bin with it, but then thinking better of it, smoothed it out, and slipped it into his back pocket.

John winced when he heard another round of heated words shouted from the direction of the foyer, followed by a distinct door slamming. Sherlock had two spots of color high on his cheeks when he returned.

“Hey,” John moved to pull him into another hug. “Thanks for picking up dinner.”

“Of course.” Sherlock rested his chin on the top of John’s head, and gradually let himself relax into John’s embrace. “John, I apologize for all that. Mycroft had no right . . .”

“I know. Come on. Let’s forget about your brother, and have dinner.”

“I need to know what he said to you.”

“Let’s eat first.” John rubbed over his back. “It smells incredible.”

“Alright.”

Things settled as they sat down to dinner, dishing up all of John’s favorites, and a bottle of white from the wine cellar.

“So, how was the job?” Sherlock asked at length.

“She’s great.” John smiled.

“She?”

“OH, sorry, it. It’s great. Yeah, the other doctors are fantastic.” John waxed on about Dr. Callum, and Sarah while a small frown creased Sherlock’s forehead.

“I think it’s going to be an alright place to start. I mean, I doubt I’ll want to work there forever, but it’s good for now. Just what I needed.”

“Good, that’s good.” Sherlock nodded.

Eventually Sherlock asked John again what Mycroft had said to him, and he grudgingly relayed the offer of money and a prestigious position elsewhere, if he would just agree to leave Sherlock alone.

“The bastard.” Sherlock quivered with indignation.

“Ah, I’ve heard it all from Harry before. Older siblings. They have to stick their noses into things every once in awhile. It’s harmless.” John chased the last of his butter chicken around his plate with a corner of the naan.

Sherlock snorted in reply.

Later, they left the dishes in the sink, and moved upstairs to have a warm bath together in the enormous bathtub. John set the water running and added a dash of scented soap to fill it with bubbles. Sherlock crawled in first to lean against the side, and John stepped in carefully to snug between his legs, leaning his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder. As they relaxed, letting the cares of the day melt away, it was bliss. Until Sherlock shifted, and relayed more of Mycroft's visit.

“John, at the door, before Mycroft left, he reminded me that he IS half owner of the house. As such, he maintains that he has the right to say who resides here.”

“He could ask me to leave?” John felt a trickle of cold through his belly.

“No, he cannot,” Sherlock said firmly, his arms coming up to hold John around his middle. “It’s not something clearly defined by the law, nor is it something he would want dragged through the courts. He’s bluffing. Anyway, despite himself, Mycroft actually likes you. I could tell.”

“How could you tell?” John twisted back to see Sherlock’s face.

“You’re still here.” Sherlock shrugged. “He hasn’t had you deported or disappeared.”

“Well, remind me not to get on his bad side,” John chuckled not quite sure if Sherlock was joking or not.

Sherlock snorted. “He’s just putting on a show with _Sturm und Drang_. He’s come down, rattled the bars, had his say. Now he’ll go back to his lair in London and if we’re lucky, we won’t see him until the next seasonal inspection.”

“Okay. Sherlock, you know I’m not going anywhere, right? Not if you don’t want me to.” John reached up, placing his hands over Sherlock’s arms.

“No, I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock's voice rumbled so deeply John could feel it vibrating against his back.

“Good, then. Neither wild horses nor scary brothers can drag me away.”

Sherlock breathed a laugh.

“So, do you want to tell me about this Sebastian bloke?”

Sherlock groaned expressively behind him. “God, that is such ancient history. I could kill Mycroft for bringing that up.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”  John traced soapy circles over the skin of Sherlock’s arm.

“No, no, it’s alright. He and I were together for awhile at uni.”

“What happened? I’m assuming things didn’t go well.”

“Oh, the usual sort of thing.” Sherlock’s voice had gone breezy. “ _I_ thought he really cared, and _he_ was just using me on a lark. He left me when someone flashier came on the scene. I was an idiot about the whole thing.”

“The hell you were. The guy sounds like a total arsehole. Fucker.” John could feel his anger building on Sherlock’s behalf. “Tell me where he lives, I’ll go kick his arse for you.”

Sherlock chuckled at that. “He was working as an investment banker in London last I heard. Married to a wealthy woman, two kids, probably drives a Volvo. Yawn.”

“Well, his loss is my gain. I’d have been heartbroken to meet you, and find out you were married to some banker knob.” John almost felt the sadness of this scenario, but quickly brushed it aside. A universe where he wasn’t with this gorgeous man wasn’t one he wanted to consider.

"He wouldn't have stood a chance next to you, John," Sherlock said quietly. 

John twisted in the water as best he could to face his lover, leaning in to mouth at Sherlock’s lovely pale neck framed by the dark curls hanging heavy from the steam. “You’re mine! Hmmm? All mine.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed happily, tilting his head to give John better access. “All yours.”

“Take me to bed,” John breathed against Sherlock’s slick skin.

“Oh, yes, please.” Sherlock’s beautiful mouth bent into the wickedest little smile.

John shivered, and reached back to pull the plug.

)0(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never having been to the Seven Sisters chalk cliffs of Sussex myself, I spend the better part of a week on YouTube and Google Earth researching the area to be able to include it in my story. I feel like I've had a virtual holiday!
> 
> Fun fact, the naturist (nudist) beach is a real thing around Birling Gap. Here's the [article](https://www.tripsavvy.com/birling-gap-uk-nude-beach-1662465) I found about it.
> 
> While the cliffs and beach Sherlock and John explored exist, the cave I created for them does not, though I did base it on caves in the area. Here's a YouTube [Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPEldVOvOr0) of some people exploring that I found helpful.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks once more to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for some lightning-fast, mad beta skillz!

)0(

 

“Woo Hooo, everyone decent?” Mrs. Hudson called out as she entered the back door with her hand over her eyes.

Thankfully their neighbor had begun announcing her presence loudly after the last time she walked in and found Sherlock and John having another honey fest over the kitchen table. John had been sucking Sherlock’s honey-slathered cock to great abandon when the older lady walked in laden with fresh tomatoes and zucchini. They’d rolled helter skelter over the floor when she’d shrieked and dropped her basket.

John looked up from the morning paper. “Morning Mrs. H. I’m dressed. Can’t speak for himself, though. He’s still in the shower.”

“Ah, well, as long as no festivities are going on . . . in the kitchen,” the older lady tutted. “I made too many blueberry muffins.” She lifted the plastic storage bin in her hand in explanation.  “Thought you might like some.”

“Oh, God, you’re fantastic, Mrs. H.” John smiled. “Care for some tea? Water’s just boiled.” John nodded toward the kettle.

“Thank you, dear. Don’t mind if I do.”

John smiled as Mrs. Hudson puttered about the kitchen as if it were her own, fixing herself a cup of tea to join him at the table. She peeled the lid off the box to lift out a muffin, placing it on John’s plate next to his half-eaten toast before selecting one for herself.

“Ta.” John smiled warmly, wondering how he could have once mistaken Mrs. Hudson for one of the maids. She was nothing like the three squat Ukrainian ladies who descended on the house every other Wednesday afternoon to dust and tidy with a vengeance. Thankfully they’d taken in John’s added presence with hardly an eye bat.

“You need to eat more. Both of you.” She patted John’s arm affectionately before stirring some honey into her tea.

John didn’t think he needed to add too many more pounds to his already slightly-podgy middle, but he agreed with Mrs. H about Sherlock. John was certain that without the frequent visits of Mrs. Hudson over the last few years, Sherlock most likely would have starved to death. For a honey-maker, Sherlock was altogether too unconcerned with any nutrition going into his body on a regular basis. John was also grateful that the woman had warmed to his presence so quickly. Once she was convinced that John wasn’t some fly-by-night rent boy come to ruin Sherlock’s heart and hearth, she’d been the soul of welcome.

“John, did you hear the news about the Blyworth family?”

“No, nothing wrong, I hope.” John perked up. He enjoyed hearing the local gossip from his neighbor, feeling much more connected to the area from her ongoing updates. If anything newsworthy was happening near East Dean, Mrs. Hudson seemed to know about it first.

“They’ve just called off Angela’s wedding.”

“NO!” John’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “But they just booked the six-piece orchestra and the flock of doves to be released.”

“Just so.” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

“What happened?”

“Groom got cold feet. Up and left for a new job in Majorca without telling anyone. Sent a text message the next day calling it quits.”

“A text message! My God, what an arse,” John tutted.  “That poor woman.”

“She was devastated.” Mrs. Hudson nodded sagely. “Still, I wasn’t sure even from the beginning it was going to work out. Angela was always a difficult one, bit of an odd duck. And HE, well he wasn’t from around here - a flashy boy from London. I just didn’t see it having long-term potential to be honest.”

“Hmm.” John took a thoughtful sip of his tea.

“Gossiping again?” Sherlock swept in looking devastating in a blue button up and damp curls trailing down his neck. “Terrible habit.” He leaned in to pluck a muffin from the container on the table.

“Oh, you.” Mrs. Hudson aimed a swat at Sherlock’s backside that he nimbly avoided. “You don’t mind when I’ve news on the Paynes’ bee farm.”

“That’s different,” Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of baked good. “Professional intel is important.”

Sherlock looked somewhat affronted as both John and Mrs. Hudson burst into giggles. He slid gracefully into the chair beside John, grabbing his cup for a swallow to wash the muffin down.

“Not sweet enough.” He frowned.

“Well, it’s not your tea.” John rolled his eyes. When it became apparent that Sherlock planned to continue drinking it anyway, John rose to fix a new cup.

“Hudders, how’s your lavender blooming this year? I could use some extra for a project I’m planning.” Sherlock leaned toward Mrs. Hudson.

John focused on making the tea, only half listening to the conversation buzzing behind him. When he returned with the fresh cup, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“You can have it, this one’s mine.” He wrapped both hands around John’s RAMC mug as if afraid John would wrestle it away from him.

“Fine, fine,” John huffed, settling down with the TARDIS cup.  “Suit yourself. Have the cold tea.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson reached out to touch his hand. “I meant to tell you, I’ve had another call from your brother.”

“Oh? And what did his arseness want this time?”

“He’s offered to pay me for weekly reports on you and John.”

“Did you take him up on it?”

“No, of course not. I said I’d do it for free. What should I tell him?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.

“Tell him we’re having 24 hour sex orgies. I’ve taken to ordering dungeon gear off the internet, and we’re eating cake for every meal.” Sherlock waved a negligent hand.

“God, no.” John set his cup down with a loud click, looking quickly around the table. “Can’t you say everything is fine?”

“Oh, John, relax. I never say anything upsetting,” Mrs. Hudson reassured him.

“Pity,” Sherlock huffed. “I’d like to see Mycroft dealing with a coronary.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She grimaced. “Oh, Sherlock. I know he’s a bit of a pompous  . . . baboon at times, but he’s your big brother. He cares about you.”

John had a sudden image of the posh, upright man turned into a baboon still wearing his three piece suit with his brolly and briefcase in his hands. He couldn’t help smiling. Sherlock caught his eye, and smirked in response.

John’s eyes went to the clock on the wall behind Sherlock, and he straightened up. “Oh, is that the time? I’ve got to run. I’m filling in for Doctor Callum today,” he explained to Mrs. Hudson.

“Look at you dashing about.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “It’s so nice to have a doctor around if we need it.”

“Yes, I meant to ask, did the prednisolone help with the hip?”

“Oh, yes, thank you!  It’s been _worlds_ better.”

“Good, good. You’ll still need to follow up with your regular doctor.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Hey, I’ll be home in time for dinner.” John moved to exchange a quick kiss with Sherlock.

“See you later.” The soft smile on Sherlock’s face was the one he reserved for John only.

“Drive carefully, John, there’s roadworks on Eastbourne Road again,” Mrs. Hudson warned.

“Thanks, Mrs. H.” John nodded.

He could hear them talking all down the hall as he grabbed his bag and jacket, Mrs. Hudson’s light patter, and Sherlock’s answering deep rolling baritone. It had quickly become one of John’s favorite sounds. It was fantastic to know he had that to come home to in just a few hours. He headed out with a spring in his step.

John returned that evening feeling infinitely wearier. It had been a trying day filled with too much paperwork, several screaming infants, and an elderly woman with a nasty cough that wouldn’t clear up. John had ended up driving her to hospital himself over her ardent protests that she had baking for the local fete that wouldn’t wait. John dragged home hoping for a cup of tea, a shower, and something hot for dinner in that order.  He pushed into a kitchen that looked as if a bomb-making terrorist cell had taken over. Mysterious open cartons, half-empty boxes, and sticky bowls covered every flat surface in the room.

“What in the world?”

Sherlock looked up from where he was stirring a large steel pot of something bubbling over the hob. He had safety goggles on, smushing his wildly frizzing hair back on both sides.

“I’m trying something new. Experimenting with some skin scrubs, and lotions. Might branch out with a whole new line.”

“Alright. That’s lovely.” John rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was hoping for some dinner tonight, though?”

“Dinner. Dinner’s boring,” Sherlock huffed, giving his brew another good stir.

“Right. I’m for the shower.” John sighed, and backed out of the room, temporarily abandoning the idea of a hot cuppa.

After John was well scrubbed, and changed into a soft tee shirt and jeans, he braved the battle zone of the kitchen again. Sherlock was still hard at work on his conconctions, but John managed to sidle around him, rummaging in the fridge for some leftover Chinese food, a couple of apples, and a can of lemonade.

He carried his spoils back to the living room, setting himself up with the sofa and coffee table before flicking the television on. Cold pork fried rice went well with a “Midsomer Murders” episode. They were just wrapping things up, about to share the big reveal on who had murdered the man driving the green car, when Sherlock bustled in looking contrite, his hair still a fright, and a glob of something now stuck to one cheek.

“John, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?” John tried to listen and watch the show at the same time.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the kitchen. I got a bit carried away. I’m not used to  . . . regular schedules. My workshop wasn’t big enough for what I wanted to do. But you wanted dinner.”

“No, it’s fine. Look, I’m okay.” He waved toward the remains of his cobbled-together meal.

“That’s not what you wanted.” Sherlock’s mouth pressed into a crumpled line.

“Oh, love.” John gave up on the telly, grabbing the remote to mute it. “I don’t expect us to make a fuss over dinner every night. I know you had a life before I came along. It’s alright. Did you eat anything today?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Nothing past breakfast.”

“Here, at least have an apple.” John held out the one he hadn’t eaten.

“Alright.” Sherlock slid onto the sofa beside him, accepting the offering.

John turned the sound back on the telly, but the show had moved on to a jaunty wrap-up scene, mystery solved. He sighed.

“John, why do you suffer this mindless drivel? The mysteries, if you can call them that, are either completely implausible or wildly obvious.” Sherlock flicked a hand imperiously toward the screen. “There’s hardly any point to watching it at all.”

“It’s not as mindless as some things on.” John shrugged. “It’s good drama, and I enjoy trying to solve the mystery with them. We can’t ALL solve a crime with just a clue or two, you know.”

“John, you aren’t stupid.” Sherlock bit into the apple with a crunch.

“No, but I don’t have your massive intellect.”

“True, but the same could be said of most people.” Sherlock paused as he chewed, obviously mulling something over. “John, you realize I hold you high above the rest of the population.”

“Well, I should like to think so. I’m not shagging just anyone these days.”

“I’ve . . . never done this before, you know.” Sherlock looked a bit shy.

“I know you’ve done shagging before.” John waggled his eyebrows. “Though I’d like to make you forget everyone who came before me, obviously.”

“John, I’m serious.” Sherlock’s brows knit together. “I’ve never shared living quarters with anyone before. I’m afraid . . . I’ll bollocks it all up somehow.”

 “Oh, love. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing either. We’ll work it out together as we go along, right?”

 “The doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“What’s that great saying? _Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans_?”

“What philosopher said that?” Sherlock frowned.

“John Lennon, I think.” John smiled, reaching out to touch the glob stuck to the side of Sherlock’s face. “What is this?”

Sherlock drew John’s finger closer to his nose and sniffed. “Sugar, honey, and coconut oil. I was devising a basic scrub.”

“So it’s edible?”

“Essentially, yes.”

John licked his finger. “Mmm, it’s actually really good. I can see it on top of a cake.”

“It’s meant to exfoliate and moisturize.”

“Mmmm.” John leaned in and licked up the side of Sherlock’s face. “Delicious.”

Sherlock's eyes darkened, and in a heartbeat, they were burrowing into the cushions of the sofa, wrapped together, attempting to uncover and consume as much bare skin as quickly as possible. The mess of the kitchen was quickly forgotten as they wove a spell with wicked fingers and honeyed whispers that chased anything that wasn't _ohgodyes_ and _pleasemore_ completely from John's mind. 

 

)0(

 

John grabbed his lunch from the small fridge in the staff room and moved to join Sarah at the table. She had a new, bright red top on, and John couldn’t help admiring how it hugged her curves, if only briefly.

“Any plans this weekend?” Sarah dipped her spoon into her cup of instant noodles and stirred. John mentally calculated the whomping load of sodium in the soup. Physicians sometimes ate the worst food even though they knew better.

“Nothing much.” John shrugged, unwrapping his sandwich.

“Some friends and I are off to the Brighton Thai Festival on Sunday. You could join us. It’s loads of fun. Your girlfriend might really like it.”

John winced. He’d told Sarah early on that he was living with someone when she’d casually inquired about his relationship status. He hadn’t specified Sherlock’s gender though, and Sarah had naturally assumed a woman. All John had to do was correct her, no big deal . . .

“Hmm, sounds fun, I’ll think about it.” John smiled wanly and took a large bite of chicken salad.

They chatted amiably about the merits of Asian cuisine, and the uses of a new medication the reps were pushing until the afternoon patients began trickling in. John felt like a heel as he moved to bin his trash. He’d just negated Sherlock’s entire existence with a casual deflection. He wanted to go back, and tell Sarah, _No it’s a man I live with, and he’s the love of my life_ , but the moment had passed.

“Back into the fray!” Sarah chirped as they left the lunchroom.

“Yeah, hope Mr. Stanwell isn’t in today.” John had already grown weary of their local hypochondriac.

“I checked. He has an appointment at three,” Sarah said. “Lucky for the rest of us he’s taken such a liking to you!”

“Oh, God. Why me?” John groaned.

“I’ll take him if you like, tell him you’re busy.”

“Sarah, would you? God, you’re an angel.”

“Yes, that’s me, just missing the wings.” She winked before disappearing into her office.

 

)0(

 

“John?” 

“Hmm?” John glanced at Sherlock curled next to him on the sofa.

They’d spent the evening watching an old Bond DVD, part of John’s attempts to educate Sherlock on popular culture, though really John was the only one watching while Sherlock mucked about on his computer.

“How would you like to join me on a case?”

“Oh, wow, really?” John reached for the remote on the coffee table, pausing the movie.

“You have a long weekend coming up, and I would enjoy the company.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“A ghost sighting, apparently.”

“Didn’t think you took paranormal cases, hmm?”

“I think, in this case, the subject is still very much in the land of the living.”

“Okaaaaay,” John smiled, “what’s the story, then?”

“I generally don’t take missing persons cases, but a man emailed me recently that his fiancé, Kerry Williams, died five years ago. Then, several weeks ago, he saw her on the telly in the background of a news story.”

Sherlock flipped his computer around to show John a still frame of a woman with a pleasant wide face, and long blonde hair standing smiling in a garden next to a brunette woman with a similar square jaw.

“Which one’s the dead girl?”

“Taller one with the long hair is Kerry Williams. The woman with her is her sister, Anne.”

Next Sherlock clicked open a short news clip of a man asking people on the streets of Cardiff  their opinions on a newly appointed official. Sherlock paused one scene and zoomed in on a woman drinking coffee from a takeaway cup in the background. John squinted at the screen. She did look eerily similar to the woman in the photo, except that her hair was much shorter, curling in dark waves about her face.

“Oh, wow. I do see the resemblance, but people _can_ have look-alikes in the world.”

“True, there are only so many configurations for the human face. Still, I managed to run a facial recognition software comparing the two. It was a commercial app, and not as accurate as programs available to the government, but it was a very high match.”

“Interesting. So, how did she die, this Williams woman, and did the boyfriend actually see it?” John frowned.

“Oddly enough no. The client, Clive Harrison, was away on a business trip in the States, he said. He got the news by a phone call that his girlfriend had passed away suddenly from a heart attack. By the time he returned home, she’d been cremated. The family held a small memorial service.”

“How old was she?” John asked.

“Only 25 at the time.”

“Had she a history of heart trouble? That’s unusual to die that young of cardiac arrest.”

“There was a family history. Her father had passed fairly early of a heart attack at 35, but Kerry, herself, had seemed healthy enough previously.”

“That is odd, but not inconceivable.” John shrugged. “Still why would the family lie if it weren’t true? A joke, a hoax? Sounds a bit of a conspiracy theory to me.”

“True. I would have interviewed the Williams family, but the mother died two years ago from breast cancer, and I haven’t been able to locate the sister.”

“Okay, sounds properly weird. So, when do we leave?”

“There’s an off-peak train we can catch tomorrow morning at 7 am, if that isn’t too early?”

“No, that’s fine.”

John complained quite a bit the next morning at being roused so early on a day off, but once Sherlock handed him a cup of tea, and his brain came on line, he managed to turn things around. He was whistling a tune with the radio as he parked the green hatchback in the station lot.

“I’m quite looking forward to this, really.” He grinned at Sherlock as they got out. “Sort of an adventure, yeah?” John sucked in a lungful of early morning air robustly.

“John,” Sherlock frowned as they pulled their bags from the boot, “you do realize this is just a simple investigation, yes? We’ll be asking questions, following leads, some legwork – nothing too exciting.”

“I know. Still, never been on an investigation before. Haven’t been to Cardiff in an age either.”

“Yes, I do find an occasional change of scenery helps keep my state of mind in order.” Sherlock hefted his bag over his shoulder. “Just as long as you realize there won’t be any grand motorcycle chases or daring martial arts fights. This won’t be a BOND movie.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” John made sure the car was locked up tight. “Let me dream a little, okay?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and led the way into the station.

The off-time train was only partially filled. They found seats easily enough, and settled in for the trip. Sherlock instantly popped open his laptop and got working, but John enjoyed kicking back, watching the scenery sliding past the windows. A thick morning mist had settled over the green fields, giving everything a blurry, impermanent feeling as if they were adrift in some magical faery realm instead of traveling on the 7:05 train from Brighton to Cardiff Central.  

John yawned and leaned against Sherlock, enjoying the warmth of him along his side. The next thing he knew, he was rising back to consciousness, eyes gritty and mouth dry.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep.” John blinked.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock gave him a fond little smile. “We’re changing trains soon in Fareham.”

“Yeah, okay.”  John pushed himself upright, stretching his back as he scrubbed at the corner of his eye with a knuckle.

There was the usual scuffle, people rushing to stand by the doors as the train slowed. Fareham was a tiny stop, and they grabbed their bags and shuffled out to wait in the chill morning air for their connecting train. John yawned again. Leaving Sherlock on a bench with the bags, he bought two cups of tea in paper cups and a couple of dodgy-looking breakfast sandwiches from the only food kiosk.

John devoured his food in a few bites before starting on the tea. He watched as Sherlock picked at his bacon butty in desultory way, but drank the tea well enough.

“So, tell me, what leads do we have on this woman? How are you planning on finding her from a few seconds in a news clip?”

“There are always clues, John. I know she visited a Starbucks recently from the cup in her hand, and there are two in short walking distance from that museum. I got a list of her interests from her fiancé. Kerry Williams worked as a secretary for an insurance agency during the week, dull, but volunteered at an art museum on weekends. She did some art herself, and was an avid reader.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed as he warmed to his topic. “There are tracks that people run along, things they tend to return to.”

“Okay.” John nodded, and finished off his tea. “So, we look at, what, art museums, book shops?”

“It’s a good enough place to start.” Sherlock nodded, obviously pleased at John’s line of reasoning.

The next train ride was shorter, and John watched as fields moved into groups of terraced houses then morphed into larger buildings as they arrived in Cardiff. They caught a taxi to take them to the busy downtown street where the interviews had been conducted. Sherlock led the way to a nearby, mid-priced hotel where they were able to book a room for that evening, and leave their bags until check-in time.

After that, Sherlock lost no time in dragging John to the closest Starbucks. John hung back watching in amazement as Sherlock changed into another person. This new man still had dark hair and skin pale as milk, but he stood a bit shorter, his shoulders hunched in as if he were afraid to take up too much space. His chin disappeared a bit into his neck as he approached the cashier with a timid smile. The young woman in the apron smiled more broadly at him.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?”

“I’m frightfully sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for someone. We had a .  . .  well a moment last week and I never caught her name.” Sherlock fumbled in his pocket before retrieving his phone. “I wonder if you might have seen her here before?”

The woman peered at the picture Sherlock had on the screen of the woman drinking coffee.

“No, sorry.” She shook her head.

“No worries. Thanks for your time.” Sherlock popped a sad little smile, and he and John were out the door to the next place.

“Do you want to split up? We could cover more ground if I asked around too.” John was relieved to have a more normal-looking Sherlock striding along by his side.

“No, won’t work.” Sherlock thumbed through a list on his screen.

“Why not? I can be charming.” John huffed.

“If it got back to the mystery woman that several people were looking for her, it could tip her off, but one? I could certainly be what I say, a smitten chance encounter.”

“Oh, okay. Right.”

“Come on, there’s a good used bookshop right around the corner.”

John resigned himself to being wingman, following along as Sherlock dragged them from coffee shop to bookstore to art gallery.  At least John was able to grab a cuppa and a scone for lunch from one of the spots they visited. As the day wore on to evening, John had to admit that detective work wasn’t terribly glamorous.

Finally, as the light bled into true dark, and many of the shops had closed for the day, Sherlock sighed and agreed to knock off the chase. John pointed out a nice-looking restaurant on the street, and they retired for a pint and a plate of something filling.

“John, I’m sorry. I thought we’d make more progress than this.” Sherlock plowed his hands through his hair, upsetting the already tumbled mess of curls. “Generally I have more to go on before I start the legwork.”

“No, it’s fine. Good exercise. I’m starving though.” John flipped through the menu eagerly.

The waitress, a cheerful, round-cheeked woman, returned quickly with their drinks and took their orders for dinner. When she returned with their plates, Sherlock had the photo up on his phone.

“I just don’t know what other avenue we could take to find her . . .”

“Oh, that’s Annie,” the waitress said, surprised, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder as she set John’s steak and kidney pie to the table.

“You know this woman?” Sherlock asked, perking up instantly.

“Yeah, sure, she used to work here. What do you want her for?” The woman’s naturally friendly demeanor shifted to something a bit more suspicious.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, sitting a bit taller, drawing a cloak of respectability around him. “I’m a private investigator hired by an estate to find this woman for the settling of a will. She’s to come into a great deal of money if we can locate her. If you had some contact information . . .” Sherlock trailed off expectantly.

“I don’t know. I’ll get the manager.” The woman looked unsure.

“That would be most helpful, thank you.”

“God, I love how you DO that.” John leaned in as the waitress scurried off.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock poked at his pasta, looking for a piece good enough to fork up.

“I can’t get over how you change personalities like that.” John had no compunction against spooning up a large bite of pie. “It’s like you become different people when you want to.” The taste of gravy, meat and potatoes filled his mouth. John groaned, chewing appreciatively.

“I admit some acting does come in handy during the course of an investigation,” Sherlock said, watching as John scooped up another bite, almost transfixed.

“So, Annie, that’s the name of the sister isn’t it?” John asked around the mouthful of pie.

“Yes, curious. I wonder if we’re tracking the wrong woman. Their faces were actually quite similar.”  Sherlock frowned.

“So this was just a wild goose chase? It was just the sister all along?”

“Possibly, but I’d like to speak to her if we can. I hate to leave loose ends.”

When the manager appeared, Sherlock passed him a very professional-looking business card on heavy stock that proclaimed him as a private investigator.

“I’m looking for Anne Williams,” he lied smoothly. “I was hired to find her for a sizable inheritance she’s slated to receive. I hope you can give me her contact information.”

“Anne Sheridan,” the man said, peering at the photo on Sherlock’s phone screen. “She’s not called Williams.”

“Is she married?” Sherlock’s brows drew together.

“No, not when she worked here.” The manager shook his head.

“It might be a relationship of the past,” Sherlock said, waving a hand. “So hard to track women  down, you know, always changing their last names. Still, no matter. If you could give me some contact information so that I might alert her to her inheritance? It is a sizeable sum, and I’m certain she’d want to know.”

“Sorry. Wish I could help you, but I can’t give that kind of information out,” the manager said. “It’s against the rules.”

“No matter, I understand.” Sherlock nodded sadly.

“Sherlock, what can we do?” John asked after the man had left.

“I’ve got a name, and a confirmed sighting.” Sherlock grinned. “It’s infinitely more than we had when we started this morning.”

Sherlock whipped out his phone and in a few minutes had managed to locate three A. Sheridans listed in phone directory for the Cardiff area. Only one was close enough to have reasonably worked in the restaurant. Sherlock waited barely long enough for John to shovel in the rest of his dinner before he tossed a few notes on the table, and they were off, catching a cab on the street.

The address took them to a sad-looking older building of flats on a quiet street.  Sherlock caught the outer door as a couple exited and held it open for John to follow. They quickly found the number to the flat they were looking for. Sherlock rapped briskly in the center of the door with his knuckles.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice came from inside after a minute.

“I’ve got yer pizza, miss!” Sherlock called out in a surprisingly good Welsh accent.  John tried not to laugh out loud. Sherlock shushed him.

“I’ve not ordered a pizza,” the woman called.

“Are you sure? This is the number,” Sherlock insisted.

“Oh for heaven sake . . .” the door opened to a familiar-looking wide-jawed woman with dark curly hair. She trailed off as she saw the two of them and no pizza in the corridor. A ripple of shock ran over her face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, for the subterfuge, but . . .”

The woman made to shut the door, but Sherlock shoved his foot in the way to stop her.

“Please, I’m Sherlock Holmes, an investigator,” Sherlock whipped out another card, “and this is my associate, John Watson. We’ve been hired to look into a matter, and I would appreciate a few minutes of your time to answer some questions?”

The woman looked as if letting them in was the last thing she wanted to do, but she grudgingly widened the door and allowed them into her small living room. Sherlock’s eyes were instantly over the flat, no doubt cataloging everything he saw, but John only took in a tidy space with a few pieces of furniture and a couple of posters tacked to the wall.

“I don’t have a lot of time.” The woman’s eyes flickered to a small clock as she motioned them toward two armchairs. “I’m working tonight.”

“I understand,” Sherlock purred soothingly. “We won’t take long.”  Sherlock thumbed on his phone until he reached the picture of Kerry Williams in the garden. He held it out with a smile. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your sister.”

Anne swallowed looking distinctly ill. “What is there to know? She died five years ago.”

“A heart attack, was it?” Sherlock asked kindly.

The woman nodded. “It was sudden. We didn’t expect it at all. Look, what is this all about? I don’t really have time for this.”

 “We were contacted by a man called Clive Harrison to investigate a possible sighting of your sister in Cardiff,” Sherlock said. “Our investigation led us to you.”

“Well, that’s insane.” The woman looked so suddenly pale John was afraid she might pass out. “Kerry’s dead, and Clive is a sonofabitch. He’s crazy. Certifiably loony. This is ridiculous.”

“Right, we’re sorry to have bothered you,” John shot Sherlock a frown. This had gone on long enough. “It’s obvious this is some kind of mistake . . .”

The door opened and Kerry Williams walked inside carrying a plastic grocery bag. Except for her black pixie cut, she matched the picture in the garden exactly.

“Kerry, run!” Anne called, but Sherlock was up in an instant gripping the woman’s wrist.

“Please we mean you no harm,” Sherlock caught her bag before it hit the ground. “We just want to talk.”

“Please, don’t.” Tears had swum into her eyes. “Please leave us alone.”

Sherlock managed to coax her inside to the sofa where she collapsed into a heap beside her sister. Anne instantly had her arm around the teary woman as she glared daggers at John and Sherlock. “You have no right to come here, and do this. If you had any idea . . .”

“No, Anne, it’s okay. I’m tired of hiding. I knew this day would come. Now I don’t have to worry anymore.” Kerry looked up, bravely wiping her face.

“If you could explain, please. I found your obituary in the Kent News,” Sherlock prompted carefully.

“It was the only way. The only way to get away.” Kerry shuddered.

Over the next few minutes she told her story, of meeting an attractive man who seemed to be everything she’d ever wanted until she agreed to marry him. Then her entire world changed.

“He started controlling everything I did. Didn’t want me to see my friends. Made me check in all the time. When I tried to pull back, that’s when  . . . well, he wasn’t so nice then.”

“He beat her. That’s what the bastard did. We had no idea at first.” Anne looked a right fury.

“You never filed a police report,” Sherlock offered, a frown pulling his brows together. “I found no evidence . . .”

“What was the point? Everyone loved Clive. His cousin was on the police force. No one would have believed me!” Kerry exploded. “And he threatened Annie, and my mother. Said he’d hurt them too if I wasn’t good.” Kerry and Anne shared a look. “My father died years ago. They’re all the family I had. I couldn’t let that bastard get them too.”

“He was crazy, an utter monster. Show them your arm,” Anne hissed.

Reluctantly, Kerry rolled back her long sleeve. Horrible red scars covered her forearm.

 “God, what in the world?” John gasped.

“Clive threw acid on me when I tried to break it off with him. Told me if he couldn’t have me, no one else would. Thankfully he missed my face.” Kerry shuddered. She bent her head as she pushed the sleeve back down. “Faking my death was the only way I knew to escape him. I moved, changed my name, changed my look. It wasn’t enough though, was it? The bastard still found me.”

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Anne sniffed, wiping at her own eyes. “When mum died, Kerry was all I had. I led you to her!”

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock looked ill. “I had no idea.” 

“We’ll pay you.” Kerry rounded on Sherlock and John. “Whatever the devil is paying you, we’ll double it to tell him you didn’t find us.”

“There’s no need.” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “I have no intention of informing this lunatic of your whereabouts. Look, do you have a pen and paper?”

Mystified, Anne rose to fetch them for Sherlock. He took them with a word of thanks and scribbled a phone number. “I have a friend who can help you. If you call this number, he can get you into a witness protection program. You’ll never be found again if you’re willing to leave the UK.”

“Yes.” Kerry swallowed, nodding. “Anything to be rid of him. We just want to live our lives in peace.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “Sorry you had to go through this.”

 

 )0(

 

“God, that was awful.” John collapsed back over the double bed in their hotel room. He couldn’t help feeling sick to his stomach over the whole thing.

“I was an idiot. I should have seen the signs.” Sherlock paced back and forth across the small space.

“Hey, you couldn’t have known all this when the bloke hired you.” John leaned up on his elbows to watch his progress.

“Wrong. It’s my job to assess these things when I take on a client.”

“Yeah, and you aren’t psychic. It sounds like the guy is an expert at keeping up appearances.”

“Yes, and I should be smarter than the average predator.”

“Hey, stop worrying about it.” John beckoned Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, collapsing against John when he gathered him close.

“You did the right thing.” John rubbed a circle over his back. “What are you going to tell the guy?”

“Tell him to shove his job up his arse.” Sherlock’s voice came muffled against John’s shirt.

John huffed a laugh. “Really?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock shifted back to better see John’s face. “I can’t let on I know what a monster he is. I’ll tell him the woman was someone else, a stranger.” Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll be looking more closely into his past though. If he’s abused one woman, there must be other atrocities he’s committed.”

“Mmm. Probably,” John said thoughtfully. “What was the number you gave them?”

“Mycroft. He owes me a favour.”

Sherlock disentangled himself from John and rolled to his feet. “Speaking of which, let me give him a call.

“Yeah, of course.”

John went to the loo, listening to the muffled rumble of Sherlock’s voice through the door. He  turned on the water for the impossibly tiny shower, sliding the door back to squeeze inside. At least the water was hot. Sherlock was in the room’s only chair, reading something on his phone when John emerged feeling somewhat better, a towel wrapped around his hips.

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened as his eyes drank him in.

“C’mere, gorgeous.” John crooked a finger.

It was a relief beyond measure to sink himself into Sherlock’s kiss, letting the rest of the day melt away as they moved to the bed. John’s towel soon migrated to the floor as Sherlock’s fingers made their clever way smoothing down John’s hip. When his hand closed around John’s erection, he groaned in pleasure.

“God, yes.” John reached out blindly, tugging at Sherlock’s clothes so ineffectually that Sherlock batted his hands away to better pull them off himself.

John opened his eyes, reaching for him, desperately missing his touch even for the moment’s pause. Finally stripped bare, Sherlock moved in, pulling John against him, skin to skin. They both gasped for a moment, shocked at how good it felt.  Sherlock turned his face toward John, and they were off, mouths smearing together, messy, wild things as they strove to get closer, ever closer. John couldn’t stand the idea of any space left between them.

“God, want you, love you,” John mumbled nonsense as Sherlock slid his lips down John’s throat.

“Mmmm, yessssss.” Sherlock hissed like a snake, coiling himself around John, licking at him with his long, talented tongue, as if trying him out before consuming him whole. The odd idea excited John more than it should have.

“Unngggh.” John’s hips bucked up of their own accord, rubbing against Sherlock’s abdomen, as an answering stiffness pressed in at John’s hip.

His hands mapped Sherlock’s back feverishly, running over whatever he could reach _, trapezius, deltoid, latissimus dorsi, rhomboid_ , the names of muscle groups flitted through his mind. John wanted the prize of _gluteus maximus_ , scooping up a handful of those luscious curves, but Sherlock had other ideas, scooting down to lave molten trails over his chest and belly. When his mouth closed over John’s erection, John shuddered as the wet heat surrounded him.

“Mmm, honey, yes!” John reached down to thread his fingers into those impossible curls.

Sherlock’s mouth tugged at him, pulling John nearly inside out.  He could feel the rising tide swirling up over his toes, threatening to engulf him.

“No, no, stop, I want to see your face when I come.”

Sherlock pulled off and prowled back up with feline grace until he hovered over John, his arms caging him in on each side. He lowered his face to mere centimeters above. “Come inside me John - I want you to fuck me.” His slanted eyes looked almost green in the low light.

“God.” Somehow hearing profanity in that posh voice just did something to John. “Christ, yes.”

John surged up, catching Sherlock in his arms, tumbling him down beside him as he kissed him senseless, their tongues twining in instinctive patterns.

“John,” Sherlock looked utterly dazed as they parted. “I think I have some lube . . .” He gestured helplessly toward the floor.

John left him, darting over to their bags, cocking bobbing before him. He unzipped Sherlock’s bag to rummage about. “Fuck, where?”

“Outside pocket, no the other one.” Sherlock directed as John continued searching.

“Oh, bugger, I have some.” John left off to plunge his hand into his own bag.

He returned shortly, brandishing a small bottle triumphantly. John feasted on the longs lines of Sherlock’s body stretched over the bed all the way back. He licked his lips.

“Ooh, baby, you are beautiful.”

“Come. Here. Now.” Sherlock wiggled his fingers.

“Yes.”

John poured himself over Sherlock, kissing him as if he’d lost his place in a book and had to reread everything to get back to where they’d left off. Sherlock growled low in the back of his throat as John snogged him, deeply, deliberately, dissolving them both into the mattress.

“John, please.” Sherlock groaned as they broke momentarily for air.

“Okay, sweetheart.” John slicked up his fingers, bringing them to brush over Sherlock’s sweet little pucker, rubbing until he could easily slip one in.

“Nnnggg.” Sherlock shuddered.

“Yeah, that’s right, take me in, take me inside,” John crooned a patter as he stretched the muscle, advancing to include more fingers, and more friction, and more rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s flank as he died to be inside him.

“Nowww,” Sherlock groaned.

“Oh yeah, baby.”

John slicked his erection, and eased himself in, the slow progress a heaven of sensation until he bottomed out, their bodies flush.

“Mmmm.” Sherlock tilted his pelvis up. “Fuuuck me,” he exhaled in a breathy rumble.

“God, yes.” John set to a rhythm as if his life depended on it.

They rocked in unison, John driving each thrust home as Sherlock rose to meet him. A staccato burst of sounds tumbled into the air from open mouths as they groaned their way to completion. John burst apart into a million pieces, juddering out his release as his rhythm faltered. Sherlock reached between them to tug at his own cock, a sudden wetness between their bellies as much an indication of Sherlock’s finish as the lovely baritone cry that bounced off the walls.

John collapsed over Sherlock, dropping a kiss to the salt-slick skin under his mouth when he could move again.

Sherlock curled his arms around John, holding him tightly. John could feel the coiled power in the muscles, and it comforted him like nothing else. He sighed from his toes up, feeling utterly at peace.  “God, love you.”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent that might have been an echo of the sentiment, and they drifted off, tangled together as they were.  John blinked awake sometime in the middle of the night, and they both roused briefly to wash off, get a drink of water, and turn off the lights properly. They tumbled back together to sleep deeply until mid morning.

John blinked awake to Sherlock still passed out beside him. His face was sweetly slack in sleep and John couldn’t help kissing over him, bussing his cheeks and forehead, pressing small pecks to his closed eyelids until Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes.

“Good morning, John.” His voice was beautifully sleep rough.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” John dropped a deeper kiss to his upturned mouth, tasting breath that was sleepy and warm.

“Mmmm, I know what I want for breakfast.” Sherlock turned to better pull John flush against him.

“Pancakes?” John lifted an eyebrow.

“I was thinking something more along the lines of sausage.” Sherlock’s eyes were twinkling as he snaked a hand down to grasp John’s quickly rising member.

John groaned and reached down to return the favour, closing his hand around the gorgeous heft of Sherlock’s morning erection.

They made love, simply, slowly, swapping kisses, and sliding hands until a shuddering orgasm rolled over each of them once again.

“Mmm, God, I can’t get enough of you, you gorgeous thing.” John felt high as a kite, drunk on endorphins and the skin of this man wrapped around him.

“Beautiful, wonderful man. What did I possibly do before you?” Sherlock reached up a long narrow hand to tenderly cup John’s cheek. His eyes were so wide and guileless, John felt as though he might just fall into the blue sky of them, losing himself forever.

“Oh. Honey.” Embarassingly, John felt himself tearing up. He blinked his eyes trying to clear them, then simply gave up, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck as the emotion rolled over him.

“Mmm, love you.” Sherlock stroked his back. “Sweetheart,” he whispered in John’s ear.

John sniffed and nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.

Eventually they moved apart to clean up. John would have loved a shower for two, but the small facilities had them taking turns in the loo. As soon as they were decently dressed, John’s growling stomach had him chivvying Sherlock along to the small restaurant downstairs that featured a buffet breakfast. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was good enough for a hearty refueling. Sherlock shied away from the noise of the other travelers, wrinkling his nose at a nearby family with several loud children. John steered them toward a small table as far away from them as possible and set about insisting that Sherlock ingest a meaningful amount of food.

“Come on, love. You hardly ate a thing yesterday.”

“Ugh, digestion slows me down when I’m on a case.”

“Well, you solved that one, so EAT.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock shot John a cheeky look, but he set to forking up his scrambled eggs all the same.

With a full plate of food in him, John was quite content to kick back and sip a second cup of tea leisurely, watching as Sherlock chased the last of his beans about with a toast half.

“John, we don’t have to rush back to East Dean. We could stay the day, play tourists if you like?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Anything you’ve got in mind?”

Sherlock produced his phone, thumbing it to life to consult the screen.

“Hmm, it’s rain all day . . . ah, yes, there’s quite a good museum it seems, National Museum and Gallery?”

“Perfect.” John drained his cup. “Let’s go.”

They checked out, taking their bags with them to store at lockers at the museum. It was crowded, but they enjoyed the day, rambling around, taking turns deciding which exhibit to see next. Sherlock chose “First World War Collections” after John’s “Dinosaur Babies” pick. John drifted off to view a display of old munitions and bullet casings before looking up to find Sherlock peering at a case, reading something on the wall. The reflection of Sherlock’s face in the glass stopped his breath. An utterly bereft look had settled in to twist his handsome features.

“Hey, love, what is it?” John moved in, concerned, to slide an arm around his waist.

“John.” Sherlock shook himself as if waking from a dream. He turned bright eyes toward him. “I was reading some letters soldiers lost at the front line had sent home. It suddenly occurred to me how close I came to never meeting you. What if that bullet had hit you a few inches more to the right?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” John felt a prickle in his throat. He blinked his eyes again. Was it to be waterworks for him all the time, now? “Come here.” John pulled Sherlock into a tight hug.  He sighed into Sherlock’s collar.

“Oi, there’ll be none of that now!”

John sprung away from Sherlock guiltily to find an older, ruddy-faced man glaring at them from behind his thick spectacles.

“We don’t need any of that poofter stuff here. There are children about!” He waved an angry arm.

John felt himself utterly tongue tied as a wave of heat washed over him. Thankfully Sherlock was not so afflicted. A spot of color tinged his otherwise pale cheeks as he rounded on the man, but he launched into an immediate diatribe dissecting the git with a series of rapid fire deductions.

In short order, he had expounded on his gambling habit, incipient alcoholism, and latent bisexuality fueling his smokescreen of anachronistic homophobia before launching into his unthinking disrespect of a decorated war hero in a hall celebrating military service. The man backed away looking sick, mumbling apologies before Sherlock had even finished speaking.

“Come, John, I think we’re done here.” Sherlock held out his hand regally.

With a roiling stomach, John reached out to take it, allowing Sherlock to lead them back to the main corridor.

“Eh, good on you, mate!” A teen-aged boy with blue hair called as they neared the door.

Sherlock accepted the compliment with a nod, and continued pulling John into the flow of foot traffic beyond the exhibit. They walked some distance until Sherlock found a quiet corner to speak.

“John, that was inexcusable. Are you alright?”

“Me, fine, fine. How about you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He was an imbecile. I try not to suffer the drivel of fools any more often than necessary.”

“Yeah, still, that was ugly.” John clenched his fist. “You, God, you were fantastic. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. My mind went blank.”

Sherlock studied him, obviously concerned. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure, yeah, I could eat.”

They retrieved their bags, and Sherlock found a gorgeous Indian restaurant called Mint & Mustard just a short cab drive away. After a delicious meal of curry and fragrant sides, John was almost back to his usual good humor. They decided to forgo anymore sight-seeing, as a steady rain had picked up in earnest. Sherlock flagged down another cab, and they headed back to the train station.

The train ride home was uneventful.  Sherlock was so solicitous, getting John tea from the trolley, and generally seeing to John’s every need that John almost snapped at him. He managed to rein his spike of temper in though, assuring Sherlock he could look at his laptop if he wished, he was fine.

Thankfully, the weather lightened as they approached Sussex, and blue skies were peeking through the clouds as they retrieved John’s hatchback from the parking lot. John was looking forward to relaxing at home. He felt his tense shoulders finally starting to unwind as they turned off the road onto their long driveway.

“Ah, home, sweet home.” John smiled as the trees parted and the house came into view.

 Sherlock beside him merely gave a hum, busy with his phone, his skinny legs folded up, pressed against the dash.

John parked the car near the door, shutting the vehicle off before unsnapping his seat belt. “Well, that was interesting, but I’m glad to be back.”

“God, yes.” Sherlock sighed as he popped his own seatbelt open.

John gathered their bags from the boot as Sherlock moved to unlock the door.

“I’m just for the loo,” Sherlock said, heading upstairs.

“Yeah, sure.” John left the bags in the foyer to be dealt with later and moved down to the kitchen for a drink. The sound of voices from the television stopped him by the small living room, and he pushed the door open, astounded that they had left the telly on.

The telly was on, but only because a very long, fit-looking man with rich, ebony skin was lounging over the sofa watching it.

John might have been worried he was a prowler if he hadn’t already grown used to the sheer number of people who seemed to possess a key to the back door of Holmes Manor. Still, he was tired, with a headache just starting to throb at center of his forehead, and in no mood for surprise visitors.

“Well, hello there.” The man sat up, looking a bit startled. His voice was as annoyingly lovely as his face.

“Hello. Can I help you with something?” John tried to keep his irritation at bay.

“I don’t know. Can you?” A spark of something mischievous danced in the man’s eyes.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I suppose I could ask the same of you,” the man drawled, unfolding upright to tower infuriatingly high above John. “Victor Trevor.” He extended an elegant hand John’s way.

“I’m John Watson,” he snapped, shaking it only reluctantly. “I live here. I’m assuming you’re a friend of Sherlock’s?”

The man chuckled, a deep musical sound. “I’d say I was a bit more than that. We hate labels, but perhaps ‘boyfriend’ suits the relationship best.”

“What?” John sputtered, a wave of hot and cold going over him simultaneously. “Sherlock’s never even mentioned you.”

“Hasn’t he?” Victor cocked his head slightly to the side.

“Right, so exactly .  . .” John started when Sherlock chose that moment to appear in the door behind them.

“Victor.” Sherlock looked between the two men with wide eyes, his naturally pale face gone even whiter if at all possible.

John felt the bottom of his stomach drop out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea going around the fandom that Victor Trevor, Sherlock's old friend or boyfriend from uni, should be played by the actor, Idris Elba. I just saw "The Dark Tower" last week, and Mr. Elba was FANTASTIC in that. I'm officially jumping on the bandwagon! 
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but don't worry, all will be well! Thanks to all who are following along with a work in progress. I do so enjoy the company on the journey!!!


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings lovelies! Sorry to take so long with another update. Sometimes pesky life gets in the way of fic writing - how very dare. I couldn't leave you all waiting TOO long though, wondering what happened with Victor. I adore playing with the character of Victor Trevor, and had so much fun imagining the lovely Idris Elba starring in all of his scenes. Hope you have fun with it too! 
> 
> As always, MANY, many thanks to the fantastic ChrisCalledMeSweetie for her superb beta work. 
> 
> Also just a quick note. I am a Hobbit at heart. There will be meals, so many meals in all of my fics it seems - breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses . . . ;)

)0(

 

“Victor, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Los Angeles,” Sherlock snapped, seeming to regain some of his equilibrium as he crossed the room to plant himself between John and their guest.

“I was in Los Angeles. I’m back in London now.”

“And this is close to London?” Sherlock had angled his body to face Victor, blocking John slightly behind him.

“Closer than LA.” The beautiful dark man shrugged a shoulder. “I decided to drop in for a visit. Thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

“You might have called first.”

“I’ve never called first.” Victor leaned in with a leer.

“Yes, well . . .” Sherlock flushed.

John cleared his throat loudly.

Sherlock whipped around, seemingly having forgotten John’s presence in the room. 

“Victor, this is Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock jerked a hand John’s way. “John, this is Victor Trevor.”

“We’ve met.” Victor cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you needed to take on tenants. Costing too much to maintain the old place?”

“I’m not a tenant,” John bristled, feeling his blood pressure starting to rise. “I’m his . . .” John fumbled. Somehow ‘boyfriend’ didn’t sound strong enough for the circumstance, and he didn’t have another term that sounded better.  _Soul mate? Life partner? . . . was it even true?_

“We’re together,” John finished lamely.

“What, a live-in? Sherlock, I didn’t think you had it in you.” The side of Victor’s mouth curled upward.

“What the . . .” John felt words leaving him as a heat rose over his face.

“Victor, I haven’t heard a word from you in eight months. What you think hardly matters to me.” Sherlock stood taller.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to overstep.” The look on Victor’s face was almost contrite as he held up his palms. “Look, I can go.”

 “You came by cab.” Sherlock seemed to deflate as his shoulders slumped. “It would hardly be convenient to get another one this late, and there isn’t another train to London for hours.”

“I can find a hotel room.”

“Nonsense. We’ve more than enough space. The green room is made-up.” Sherlock didn’t glance at John.

“Alright, thanks.” A grin spread across the man’s handsome face.

John clamped down on the words bubbling up his throat, and managed a thin smile.

In short order, they had moved upstairs. Sherlock disappeared for a moment to settle Victor in the bedroom at the end of the hall. John went to the loo to brush his teeth, scrubbing a bit more forcefully than was perhaps completely necessary for good dental hygiene. He was dressed in pjs, leaning against the headboard and attempting to read a paperback, but not making it past the first paragraph when Sherlock reappeared.

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line. “I had no idea Victor was coming.”

“No, yeah . . . obviously.” John put his book down. “So . . . about Victor  . . .”

“Ugh.” Sherlock huffed out a breath of air. “Can we not discuss Victor tonight? I’ll ask him to leave tomorrow.”

“Okay.” John frowned.

He wanted to say more, but Sherlock looked completely done in as he changed into his pyjamas, throwing his clothes vehemently to the floor. At least John got a nice view of his beautiful backside before he pulled on his old faded bottoms, and worn tee. Once clad, Sherlock crawled into bed beside John. He yanked the duvet up to his chin, and rolled onto his side with a huff.

 “Good night, John.” Sherlock’s voice came muffled from under the covers.

“Yeah . . . good night.” John would have liked to angle for at least a good night kiss, but Sherlock’s stiff back presented a wall that looked difficult to cross. John reached out to turn off the light.

John woke in the dark, not sure what had disturbed him. He reached instinctively for Sherlock, but some emptiness in the room alerted him to the fact that Sherlock was gone even before his hand touched unoccupied mattress. John waited a few minutes, but when Sherlock didn’t appear from a trip to the loo, he sat up, pushing the duvet back to swing his feet to the rug.

All was quiet in the hall. The bathroom was dark, and the door to Victor’s room, tightly closed. John waited outside a moment, feeling like an utter creeper, but it was silent within. He made his way downstairs, listening for any noise as he stepped into the shadows of the kitchen. All of the lights were off save one over the hob looking like a small beacon in the dark. In the dim light, John could see the back door was open.

He moved in to close it when the acrid stench of tobacco smoke rolled over him. John wrinkled his nose, ready to say something, when he heard the subsonic rumble of Sherlock’s voice outside, and a deep, melodic giggle in response. John froze where he stood, his eyes adjusting to the dark as he watched Sherlock and Victor sitting on the back steps, passing a lit cigarette.

“So how are the bees, little man?” Victor said, a smile in his voice.

“They’re fine.” Sherlock had a bit of a sulk in his tone. John could hear him inhaling, pulling the thick smoke into his lungs. “You only liked that they made something you could eat for breakfast.”

“It’s true,” Victor purred. “If something isn’t useful, I don’t have much truck with it.”

Sherlock snorted rudely. “You’re being short-sighted.”

“That might be true.” Another chuckle. “So, a doctor? When did you go all tame?”

“You don’t get to do this, Victor. Say something else about John, and you can start walking to the train station.”

“Peace, peace!” Victor backed down instantly. The cigarette passed between them again. “You didn’t use to be so touchy.”

“Really? Oddly enough you’re just as much of an arse as you always were.”

A burst of laughter at that.

“Why are you back from Los Angeles?”

“Have you _been_ to Los Angeles?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” Sherlock clipped.

“If you’d been, you wouldn’t have asked why I left.” Victor blew a plume of smoke into the night. “Got tired of every day being bright and sunny. Does things to a man.”

Sherlock rumbled something in reply that John couldn’t quite catch, and he realized what had started innocently enough had turned into deliberate eavesdropping on the men outside. He decided he had two options here, be a man, and step up to make himself known, or be a mouse and sneak off the way he’d come hoping they hadn’t noticed him.

John felt an utter coward, but he was tiptoeing up the stairs avoiding the creaks before he’d really thought it over. He sighed as he climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up. He knew he’d be hard pressed to get back to sleep as his stomach roiled, but thankfully a few minutes later, Sherlock appeared, slipping quietly into bed, the smell of tobacco clinging to him.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

John pretended to be asleep, listening until Sherlock’s breath finally deepened to a soft, steady pace. Eventually, he drifted off as well.

When John woke next to full daylight, Sherlock was gone again. Disappointed, John got up, used the loo, and found clothes, selecting nicer things than he normally would for a day knocking about the house. If he were truly honest with himself, John was girding himself, preparing for battle before meeting the impossibly attractive Victor again.

He naturally gravitated back to the kitchen where the smell of good things cooking beckoned. Victor was at the hob doing a fry up that looked irritatingly good. He’d even put on an apron that hung inside the pantry door. John had never bothered with it.

“Good morning. Coffee?” Victor spared him a quick glance before giving something a quick stir.

John watched as the muscles in Victor’s bared arm flexed. “Yeah, alright.” He found a cup from its place in the cabinet.

 John hadn’t been sure there’d even been coffee in the house, but Victor seemed to have unearthed a press that now sat on the worktop full of the fragrant brew. John poured out a healthy dose, adding a quick splash of milk from a nearby bottle. He took a long swig, hoping the caffeine would jump start his brain back to normal speed.

“Where’s Sherlock, then?” Some part of John had hoped to simply ignore Victor until he went away, but it was difficult to pretend a gorgeous, over six-feet tall, muscled man in a white tee shirt, old jeans, and a ruffled apron wasn’t cooking breakfast in the kitchen.

“Outside with the bees.” Victor nodded toward the window.

John moved to look outside. If he peered through the bushes, he could just make out Sherlock in his ridiculous webbed hat at the end of the garden. Victor came to join him, and they stood for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, watching Sherlock mucking about with the hives. Something popped on the hob, and Victor turned back to give the pan a shake.

“Can I help with anything?” John rubbed at his forehead.

“No, I’m far enough along. You could get some plates though.”

“Alright.”  John pushed down his irritation, and shuffled over to the cabinets to extract some dishes and then cutlery.

Victor left the food on the hob as a serve-yourself when it was ready, and John dutifully filled his plate after Victor was finished.

It was good. Somehow Victor had worked miracles with the leavings in the fridge before shopping day. They ate for several minutes with only the clink of silverware or slurp of coffee for noise in the room.

“So,” John felt compelled to say something to break the silence. “Have you and Sherlock known each other long?”

“Seems like forever, but yeah, it’s been awhile.” The side of Victor’s mouth curled up.

“Where did you two meet?”

“Cambridge,” Victor said shortly. “We were both reading chemistry.”

“Ah.” John was surprised. He was certain the striking man was going to name some bar or flashy nightclub as his answer.

“You don’t take me for a chemist.”  Victor lifted an eyebrow John’s way.

“Oh, no . . . I didn’t . . .” John sputtered.

“You aren’t a chemist. You’re an underwear model.” Sherlock appeared at the back door to join in.

“Oi! That was years ago.” Victor rolled his eyes. “I needed the money right after uni.”

Sherlock snorted and moved to wash his hands at the sink. John made a mental note to search the internet later when he had a chance. Surely there were still some pictures to be found.

“I’ve worked in the pharmaceutical field for nearly a decade,” Victor added to John.

“Peddler,” Sherlock said reaching for the coffee. He poured himself a cup, topping it off with an unhealthy amount of sugar spooned from the bowl on the counter. John wanted to say something, but bit his tongue.

“Sales rep.” Victor shrugged. “It pays the bills. We can’t all be trust fund babies.” He shot Sherlock a fond glance.

“So, you got a job in London recently?” John prompted.

“I’m actually between things at the moment.” Victor shifted uncomfortably.

“I could make some calls . . .” Sherlock said, moving to the table with his coffee.

“No, I don’t need you making any calls,” Victor said quickly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Victor over the rim of his cup, and the two shared a look that John couldn’t begin to decipher.

“Aren’t you eating anything?” Victor prodded.

“Not hungry.” Sherlock shrugged.

Victor mentioned a paper he’d read recently, something put out by a schoolmate they knew from uni, and he and Sherlock were soon off debating the merits of peptide research. John only half followed the conversation as he went back for seconds. He was privately thrilled when Sherlock reached out to nick the bacon from his plate, eating it absentmindedly as he talked. Victor noticed too, and though it was petty, John couldn’t help smirking a little.

Talk turned to Victor’s last job at a company called Amgen. They’d been making some innovative drugs recently for the treatment of several autoimmune diseases, and John found himself asking questions, interested in Victor’s insider knowledge.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock leaned in as well. “Did they follow the hypothesis that the anti-IL-15 monoclonal antibody plays a central role in refractory celiac disease?”

“Amgen dropped the research, but let a subsidiary take it up.”

They chatted for awhile about the strides made recently in drugs for treating rheumatism, but when Sherlock and Victor veered off into more esoteric concepts of organic chemistry, John made himself useful, clearing the dishes to the sink. He ran water over them, staring out into the colours of the garden. The bees were humming merrily along, looking so casually industrious. John helped himself to the last of the coffee before rejoining the others.

“I can’t believe you spent an entire year in California.” Sherlock flipped a hand Victor’s way. “For god’s sake they drink their tea cold. With _ice_.”  

“Yeah, well, it’s bloody hot there. The ice in the tea actually makes sense.”

“What does one _do_ in California besides go to Hollywood and the beach?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“The beaches were actually quite amazing. Waves you wouldn’t believe.” Victor grinned. “Watched a few surfing competitions there.”

 “Wow, how was that?” John asked.

“Brilliant!”

Victor spent several minutes explaining the thrills and spills of surfing as John nodded encouragingly.

“I tried in once myself. It’s not nearly as easy as those blokes make it look,” Victor said.

“No, I can imagine,” John said.

“It sounds ridiculous.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Another way for idiots to hasten their early demise.”

“It’s dangerous,” Victor admitted. “The waves on the beaches there, you really need respect for them. After you’ve been dragged under a few times you start longing for a good old English tidal pool.”

“There are several nice ones near Beachy Head,” Sherlock said.

“Mmm?  I’d love to see them sometime.”

“How about now? We’ve nothing on today,” Sherlock offered with a shrug.

John tried sending semaphore signals with his eyebrows, but Sherlock neglected to look his way.

“Oh, yeah?” Victor sounded surprised. “Sure, alright. I think my schedule will accommodate it.”

“John, tidal pools? You don’t mind do you?” Sherlock looked his way belatedly, eyes widened guilelessly.

“No, sounds great.” John feigned excitement.

 

)0(

  
John sat on the edge of the rocky pool, watching as Victor and Sherlock held a mock battle, splashing each other and trying their best to nearly drown one another. John reached for the bottle of water he’d brought along, taking a long swig. The tidepool was cool on his feet, and he was grateful for the bit of afternoon sun warming his back through his tee.

He had to admit, Sherlock and Victor looked good together. Victor had a few inches of height on Sherlock, and more bulk, but they were both tall, well-sculpted creatures. Sherlock looked like some sort of sea nymph cavorting around, all long and lithe, and Victor was a wall of muscle beside him. John felt as if he’d wandered into an epic Greek tale and he were the mortal dupe consigned to watch as the Gods raged overhead. Sherlock chose that moment to trip, disappearing under the water before coming back up, coughing horribly. John nearly jumped in, ready to intervene, but Victor turned gracious, helping Sherlock to the shallows as he caught his breath.

“God, are you alright, love?” John met him with the bottle of water.

“Fine, fine.” Sherlock wiped at his streaming nose before accepting the bottle to drink.

“Honestly, pack of idiots. You’d think you were ten years old.” John glared.

“Victor started it,” Sherlock whinged as if he were indeed still in primary school.

“Don’t worry, old man, he’s alright.” Victor pulled himself up onto the rocks, water sluicing off his ridiculous yellow board shorts.

John snorted and fussed over Sherlock until he was certain he was breathing alright.

“Look, no hard feelings, I’ll take you out for a pint.” Victor smiled, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.

“Don’t fancy a pint,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. “Bottle of wine should do it, I think.”

After some negotiations, the two men bickered their way to an agreement on a French restaurant in Brighton for dinner.

“If that’s alright with John?” Victor finally remembered John sitting beside them as he rummaged out his phone to call for a reservation.

“Yep, sounds a right treat.” John feigned more enthusiasm.

They returned home to change clothes and get ready. Finally John had Sherlock alone in the bedroom for a few minutes after they’d had turns in the shower.

“So, what happened to asking Victor to leave today?” John finished buckling his belt. He hated to ask, but he couldn’t help himself.

Sherlock looked up from buttoning his shirt. John rather wished he were taking it off.

“Victor seems . . . off. I’m a bit worried about him to be honest.”

“Oh, really? He didn’t seem depressed to me.”

“It isn’t like him to walk off a job like that without another one to go to. Something’s up.”

“You can’t ask him?”

“He’d never say outright. I’ll get it out of him one way or the other, though.”

“So, he’ll be staying, what? Another day? A week?” John’s forehead puckered.

“John.” Sherlock dropped his hands from his shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. It’s your home too.”

Sherlock came forward to gather John into his arms, shirt half open, sleeves flapping where he hadn’t secured them yet. John slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist, leaning in to smell the clean skin at the base of his neck. He felt the tension loosening from his shoulders.

“I can ask him to go tonight if having him here bothers you,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair.

John felt small and petty for wanting to keep Sherlock all to himself.  “No, he’s your . . . friend. I can’t tell you not to have friends over.”

“He won’t stay long,” Sherlock said. “He never does.”

“Alright. Look it’s fine. It’s okay.”

John tilted his head, pushing up to catch Sherlock’s lips in a lovely heated kiss. He dropped his hands to Sherlock’s plush arse, dragging him closer as they drank each other down. Sherlock groaned, and John’s cock woke with a fierce twitch, trying its best to burrow closer to the lovely man plastered along his front. It was only with a great force of will that John managed to step back.

“If I had time, I’d drop you to that bed and shag you until you were crying my name,” John growled, dark and low.

 “I’m asking Victor to leave tomorrow morning,” Sherlock breathed in a rush.

Victor looked devastating in an orange checked shirt and dark fitted trousers when they reassembled downstairs. He begged to drive the Aston Martin to dinner, and after a few token protests, Sherlock tossed him the keys. John with his shorter legs of course had to squeeze into a back seat while the long-legged beings took the front. Victor put the windows down, and John couldn’t quite follow the conversation from the back seat with the rush of the wind in his ears. He contented himself with staring out the windows at the scenery until Victor pulled up for valet parking. John could see open places all around, but decided Victor must have wanted the thrill of stepping out of the sports car, and dropping the keys into the hands of the spotty boy in a jacket and tie.

The restaurant was a bit more posh that John was used to, and of course the menu was in French. Sherlock and Victor were instantly nattering away _en_ _Français_ to the waiter. John sighed and asked Sherlock to please get him a steak and chips or the closest equivalent.

The waiter made a huge production of bringing out the wine, uncorking it, and pouring a sample for Victor to taste.

Victor swirled it around in his glass, letting it breathe before taking a sip. “ _Merci. C'est très bien.”_ He gestured to the server to pour for the table.

“It’s acceptable.” Sherlock announced after taking his first sip. “Crisp with a rewarding finish.”

“Such high praise!” Victor bit back a laugh, and took another swallow.

John thought the wine was wine, but dutifully drank a mouthful.

“It’s good for a rosé, but I developed quite a taste for California wines while I was there,” Victor mused, swirling his glass again.

“Oh, really? What do you recommend?” Sherlock asked.

“A weekend spent naked in a hot tub in Napa Valley.” Victor looked wistful.

“Does that pair well with cheese?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

Victor chuckled something deep and rumbly.

John, realizing he was getting actually quite hungry, sent up a silent hurrah when a server appeared with a tray of fussy little salads and a simply enormous pepper grinder. John forked up his escarole and cherry tomatoes thinking he could have managed three more plates of it.

“I have to tell you, though, I really missed footie in the states. American football is rubbish.” Victor stretched back in his seat. “Give me a good Manchester United and Arsenals game any day of the week.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re an Arsenals fan!” John raised his eyebrows.

“Bite your tongue,” Victor snapped. “United all the way, mate.”

“I don’t know what they were thinking signing on Hernández," John said. "He’s a wild card, that one.”

“Right, he’s a good player, but I don’t think his heart’s in it.” Victor nodded.

“Do you think they’ll beat Chelsea this year?”

“They'd bloody well better!” Victor growled.

As Victor and John hunkered in, debating the merits of Manchester that year, and the worth of various players, Sherlock rolled his eyes and poured himself another glass of wine. John was pleased when a decent-looking steak with some herbed potatoes were set before him. He stopped the waiter before he scurried off.

“Hey mate, do you have anything on tap?”

Dark had fallen properly by the time they left the restaurant, a string of white fairy lights now shining softly in the bushes along the path. Victor finished a story he’d been telling as they waited for the valet to retrieve their car. John smiled at him, feeling somewhat hazy from the food, wine, a good many European craft beers, and some cognac Victor had insisted on.

“And then the woman said, _I don’t know, I’m not from Australia_ ,” Victor snickered.

John burst into a round of giggles that set Victor laughing outright. He clutched John’s shoulder, nearly upsetting him, and John grabbed Victor around the waist to not topple straight over. It made them both laugh all the harder.

“I believe I’m driving home,” Sherlock said tartly as the car slid to a stop before them.

Thankfully Victor agreed to ride in the back if John pulled his seat as far forward as it would go. They left the city quickly enough, soon gliding along the country lanes, the car’s headlamps illuminating a small stretch of road at a time in the vast dark. John fell into a near doze, jolting awake as Sherlock braked to turn down their drive.

The chorus of insects purred outside in a steady pulse as John left the car to stagger toward the door, Victor and Sherlock close behind. John waited for Sherlock with the key, not sure he was up to digging out his own.

Victor stumbled on the gravel of the drive.

“Whoa, there, cowboy.” Sherlock caught his arm before he went over.

“Bloody hell, the ground moved!” Victor grumbled.

“I’m sure it did,” Sherlock said, maneuvering him to the front step.

They all made it inside finally to a completely dark hallway. No one had thought to turn on some lights before they left.

“I think it’s bedtime for all,” Sherlock announced, snapping on the light on the landing, and herding his charges toward the stairs.

“Thanks for dinner, Vic. It was really fantashtic,” John said, feeling slightly crooked.

“My pleasure, for my favorite gents.” Victor stopped to throw out an arm out expansively.

“Come on, bed, for you both,” Sherlock insisted.

 “Yes, bed,” Victor agreed. “Mine was too empty last night. Can I sleep with you two?”

“No,” Sherlock said simply, pushing them on.

When they reached the upper floor, Victor ignored Sherlock to stumble into the master bedroom, fumbling on the light switch. Sherlock and John followed.

“Victor, please, your room is down . . .” Sherlock started.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Victor turned in a circle to view the room.

“It’s the same as it always was,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yeah, I like that.” Victor kicked off his shoes, and shucked his trousers, revealing a pair of tight dark briefs before moving to collapse over the bed.

“Victor, this isn’t amusing.” Sherlock had an utterly adorable crinkle over his nose.

“Christ, I have work tomorrow,” John complained, dropping his jacket to the ground. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed to work off his own shoes and socks.

“John, give us a cuddle.” Victor reached out to snag him from behind. John giggled as strong arms pulled him down into a wall of a chest. It was surprisingly comfortable being held like that and John went limp, relaxing back. Victor was gorgeously warm, smelling delightfully woodsy and only slightly boozy.

“You two are incorrigible.” Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips.

“Sherrrrrlock,” Victor purred. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I think the bed is big ‘nuff,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

“Please,” Victor said, his voice going slightly wobbly.

“Oh, God, fine. Just to sleep,” Sherlock said.

Somehow he got them all sorted, undressed down to smalls, covers over, and their guest rolled into the center before he turned out the light and slipped into the bed beside Victor.

Victor sighed deeply, pulling them both into his arms. It was a bit crowded, but very cozy. John slung an arm over Victor’s warm chest to touch Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yeah, no worries, no fucking,” Victor muttered. “It’s how I got inna trouble in the firs’ place.”

“Go to sleep, Victor,” Sherlock commanded in a firm tone.

“G’night,” John slurred, patting at whoever he could reach.

“Good night, John. Love you,” Sherlock whispered.

“Love yooouuuu,” John sighed.

Someone was already snoring.

John’s alarm went off with a shrill chirp the next morning. He swam to full consciousness, pushing a weight off of his hip to reach the clock, swatting it to blessed silence. It took John just a moment, and a low moan behind him to remind him something was different this morning. He glanced over to find Sherlock’s blue eyes regarding him over the broad back of a passed-out Victor, still asleep on his stomach.

“Ugh.” John felt as if something furry had died in his mouth, and his head throbbed painfully just above his left eyebrow. He desperately wanted to go back in time and tell past John to give the cognac after dinner a miss. He pushed gingerly to sitting, trying to stretch to life. God, he was too old for this. It was a great temptation to call in sick, but Dr. Callum was going to be out that day, and John was needed at the clinic.

“Why don’t you get in the shower?” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll make tea.”

“God, thanks,” John muttered, and stumbled off to the bathroom to find some paracetamol in the cabinet.

Washed and dressed, John felt slightly more human by the time he made it downstairs. Sherlock was dressed in his usual pyjama bottoms and old, stretched-out tee shirt, leaning against the sink, sipping thoughtfully from a cup.  He gestured toward another steaming cup on the countertop. John grunted in reply and reached for it gratefully. He blew over the hot surface, sipping it down like it was manna from heaven. As John’s head cleared, he managed some rudimentary conversation.

“So, Victor.”

“Victor,” Sherlock agreed crossing one ankle over the other.

“I take you two were an item once?”

“Victor is an item unto himself.” Sherlock snorted.

“Was it serious?” John squinted, somehow unable to let this go.

“You’ve met, Victor. Do you think anything to do with him is serious?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“No, I suppose not.”

“We’ve been orbiting each other for years. It was never anything very spelled out.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Friends with benefits,” John offered. 

“Yes, that sums it up well enough, I think.” Sherlock tipped back his cup.

“Listen, I need to run. You two going to be okay?”

“Of course. I’ll let him sleep enough to not be cruel, pour some tea down his throat and send him off to the train station.”

“Good man.” John stepped up to give Sherlock a quick peck.

Sherlock was warm and sleep-smelling and his tee had slipped over to reveal the slope of his shoulder. John wanted nothing more than to bundle him back to bed and have his way with him . . . except that someone was still sleeping in their bed, and John was about to be late for work. He made himself drop a single kiss to Sherlock’s soft lips and step back.

“I’ll call you later.” John moved to grab an apple from a bowl on the table.

“Mmm, have a good day.”

 

)0(

 

John frowned as he read over the invitation Sarah had just dropped on his desk, taking a swallow from his third cup of tea that morning.

“Bloody hell, do we all have to go?” John looked up with beseeching eyes.

“Yup. It’s mandatory. Sorry.” Sarah smiled wryly.

“Uuugh. I hate things like this.” John huffed out a breath.

 “Aw, chin up, it’s a charity ball for the hospital. Raises all kind of money. You’ll meet everyone who’s anyone in the local medical community there. Also, Evan insists.” She named their senior partner with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, GOD, Sarah. It’s black tie.” John shuddered as he flipped the card over.

“Get a dinner jacket, John. It’s not that bad. It’s not like you have to shave your entire body to put on formal wear like women do.” Sarah sighed. “Speaking of which, it’s a plus one. You can bring your girlfriend. We’re all dying to meet her. You’re so hushy hush. I don’t think you’ve even told me what her name  . . .”

“Sarah, look, fine. I’ve a patient coming in and I haven’t read their files yet. I’ll go. Okay? Can we discuss this later?”

“Fine, grumpy!” Sarah frowned, but mercifully quit the door to John’s office.

John sighed and opened the file the nurse had left on his desk. It looked to be a new patient. Except for a few notes listing the patient as a sixteen-year old girl, and her mother’s concerns that she wasn’t doing well, there was nothing to review.

John knocked and entered the patient’s room.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Watson.”

A glum looking girl in a grey hoodie perched on the exam table, while an older woman with the same narrow face shape sat nearby, lips pinched.

John went through the preliminaries, listening as the mother described her daughter’s recent mood swings, yelling, skipping meals and eating at odd times, not going to sleep at bedtime, a horror to wake in the mornings. It sounded like normal adolescence to John, but he nodded, dutifully making notes. He took the girl’s vitals, blood pressure and temperature, all safely within normal parameters, then turned to ask her mother if she wouldn’t mind stepping outside for a bit.

“Is that necessary, doctor, I really don’t think . . .”

“Please. We like to form our own relationship with our older pediatric patients. I’d like to speak with Emma alone. It will only take a few minutes.” John smiled warmly at the woman. Eventually she caved, and gathered her bag to move to the waiting room.

“So, Emma, how’s school going?” John leaned back in his chair, settling in.

“Okay, I guess.” The girl lifted one shoulder.

“Any subjects that you like?”

“I like composition class.” The girl perked up a bit. “I fancy being a writer one day.”

“That’s great.” John nodded. “So, are you dating, seeing any boys?”

The girl looked a bit panicked at that. _Uh oh._ John’s mind whirred toward the best pregnancy test to recommend.

“It’s all right.” John leaned in, setting his elbows on his knees. “I won’t tell your mum anything you don’t want me to.”

“I am dating, but it’s not a boy. I have a girlfriend.” Emma blushed and looked down.

John wanted to kick himself. “Oh . . . that’s fantastic. So are things going okay?”

“She’s fantastic, but that’s not the problem.”

“What’s the problem?” John swallowed.

“My parents. They’re so homophobic.” She looked up, tears welling in her eyes. “My dad’s always yelling about bloody faggots on the telly, and my mum is just as bad, always pushing me to be a ‘little lady’ and telling me I need to find the ‘right man’ to set me straight.” She snorted at the choice of words.

“You know it’s okay to be gay, right? It’s perfectly normal.” John had to say it. Someone had to say it to this poor girl.

“I know.” Emma’s voice came out watery.

“It sounds like this has been really hard on you.”

“I wish I could talk to them, but I’m scared. I don’t want them to hate me.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “I get so depressed, trying to be two different people at once. It feels like it’s tearing me in half.”

“I understand.” John nodded, feeling a familiar dark hole opening up in his own chest. “Listen, there’s a family therapist office I think would be really helpful for you and your parents. I’m going to suggest that to your mum. I won’t tell her anything we discussed, but I think you really need to talk to her. Maybe a controlled, safe space will help. What do you think?”

Emma agreed, wiping at her eyes. John handed her a tissue, and when she had composed herself, John patted her on the knee, and called her mother back in. John explained that Emma seemed to be experiencing some depression, nothing uncommon in adolescence, and scribbled the name of the counseling center on his pad. He ripped it off, and handed the page to the mother with a reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, but best to address the problem now before it gets any bigger.”

John blew out a breath when he got back to his office. He sincerely hoped things would work out well for the teen and her family.  John dropped heavily into his chair to quickly write up his notes. The damn charity ball invitation lay in the middle of his desk, staring up at him accusingly. _God._ John picked it up and shoved it into his top drawer. _Later. He’d figure it all out later. It was ages away._

 

)0(

 

John let himself in the front door a bit nervously, wondering who or what might greet him that evening. He’d called Sherlock as he left the office, but had only reached his voicemail. All was quiet when he walked into the foyer. When he called out for Sherlock, he heard a muffled reply from the back of the house. John found him in his workroom, elbows deep in honey as he bottled what had dripped from some honeycomb into his vat.

“Hey, that looks great.” 

“Yes, I’m really pleased with the way the late summer batch turned out. It’s a nice rich colour.”

“It is lovely.” John smiled at Sherlock’s head of dark curls bent over his sticky work. “So . . . Victor?”

“Left this morning shortly after you did.”

“So, was he alright?”

“He finally told me why he had to leave his job in California, practically in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah? Something cloak and dagger?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorted, screwing a lid onto a full jar. “He got caught fucking his boss’s wife.”

“Ah, well. That’ll do it.” John blew out a breath.

“Victor is an idiot, but he’s our idiot.”

“Poor bloke.”

“He’ll be alright. Victor’s like a cat, he’ll land on his feet.” Sherlock picked up another jar.  “I made some soup if you’re hungry. It’s on the hob.”

“Are you joining me?” John asked.

“Yes, let me just finish here.”

John moved to the kitchen, uncovering a large pot to discover a very good-smelling vegetable soup bubbling away. He found a bowl, served himself and carried it to the table. After having Victor around, the room seemed ridiculously quiet. Thankfully Sherlock joined him a few minutes later, getting his own bowl. John complimented him on how good the soup was, and they ate in silence for several minutes.

“So, was that weird? Last night?” John paused, spoon above his bowl. “You know . . . with Victor.”

“I don’t know, was it?” Sherlock lifted a shoulder. “I’m sorry John. My life isn’t the best ruler for normality.”

“Well, no. Mine either, really,” John snorted and spooned up another bite.

“I liked him,” John said after a minute. “I didn’t think I would and then . . . well, he sort of grows on you, yeah?”

“Victor has that effect on people.”  Sherlock smiled wryly.

“So, are you busy this evening . . .” John trailed off.

“Nothing too pressing, why?”

“Oh, no reason, I just thought we might go to bed a bit early tonight.” John leaned in. “I’m feeling a bit . . . tired.” He let his eyes drop to Sherlock’s mouth as he dragged his own tongue across his lower lip.

Sherlock’s pupils widened. “Really, tired?”

“Horribly so,” John said. “Simply knackered. I absolutely need an early bedtime. You probably do too.”

“Yes, you’re right I think I do. Feeling frightfully sleepy.” A smile unfurled its way across Sherlock’s face. “Just let me clean up in the workroom and I’ll be right up.”

“Okay.”  John stood to take his bowl to the sink. He stopped to press a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head.  

Sherlock hummed and leaned back against him. “I won’t be a minute.”

John climbed the stairs to the bedroom, used the loo, and stripped down to his briefs before sliding into the bed that Sherlock must have tidied earlier. He made himself comfortable with a couple of pillows behind his head as he waited for his gorgeous, sexy boyfriend to join him. The toll of the last few days made itself known though, and he relaxed back, closing his eyes for just a moment.

“Joooohn,” a deep voice whinged in his ear. “I thought you were just kidding about being tired.”

John blinked his eyes open blearily, bringing Sherlock’s beautiful, pouting face into view.

“Urrgh, ‘m sorry, dinna mean . . .”  John scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wake up properly.

“No. You do look exhausted.” John could feel the covers being tucked around him. “Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yeah, okay . . .” John mumbled.

He felt a kiss pressed to his forehead before he slid back under.

)0(

 

“Oh John, did you get the invitation to the Autumn Ball for The Esperance Hospital?” Dr. Callum appeared in the door to John’s office.

John looked up from the papers on his desk to regard the older man. “Yes, I did, thanks, Sarah dropped it off.”  

“I do hope you’ll be free that evening to join us. It’s quite the event around here, really a smashing good time.” Dr. Callum rubbed his hands together. “They hire such a good band for the dancing.”

“Yes, thanks, I think so. I’m sure it will be lovely.”

“Oh, and do bring your lady. Sarah told me you’ve a special someone? We’d love to meet her.”

John felt slightly dizzy. He could picture exactly how Sherlock had looked still asleep in their bed when he’d left that morning, like something from a Renaissance painting, a curly-haired angel in repose.

 “Yes, of course, I’ll let you know.” John swallowed.

“John, if I haven’t mentioned it already, I wanted to let you know what a good job you’ve been doing here. I’m so pleased that you joined the practice.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ve enjoyed being here as well.” John managed a smile.

“Good man,” Evan returned with a much jollier smile before leaving.

 

)0(

 

John held the large covered bowl as he waited for Sherlock to lock the doors to the Aston Martin. Sherlock rounded the car with a large bouquet in hand. They’d agreed that with wine off the table, flowers and dessert would be a nice hostess gift for Harry and Clara.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” John said as Sherlock reached him.

“John, your sister seems half convinced I mean to poison you and hide your corpse in the garden. It seemed prudent to demonstrate that we are both alive and well with a family dinner.”

“God, Harry.” John rolled his eyes, shifting the bowl to the crook of one arm. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s an arse to everyone.” Visiting Harry was the last thing John wanted to do tonight but they’d set it up weeks ago.

John hesitated at the door, not sure if he should knock or just walk in. He didn’t actually live there anymore. John settled for opening the door, calling out _halloo_ loudly as they entered.

“Oh, hello there!” Clara poked her head out of the kitchen. She exclaimed over the flowers, and crossed to the sitting room to grab a vase.

“Thanks so much for having us over,” John said.

“You two are always welcome, you know that.” Clara smiled.

“Wow, did you make this, John?” Harry appeared to peer at the berry trifle in John’s arms.

“Picked it out with my own two hands at Marks & Sparks!” John quirked a smile. “I’m just going to pop it into the fridge for later.”

Dinner was almost ready. John helped Harry and Clara carry things out while Sherlock fluttered awkwardly about in the background, reading the titles on the few books in the living room. Clara's cat, Mrs. Boots, made an appearance, and Sherlock hunkered down to fuss over her until it was time to sit down.

“John, it’s lovely having you over again.” Clara smiled as she passed the large bowl of spaghetti across the table. “I added mushrooms, just the way you like.”

“Thanks,” John said, accepting the bowl to spoon out a portion.

“CLARA! I hate mushrooms. You know that,” Harry whinged.

 “Well, you can pick them out.” Clara unfolded her napkin to smooth over her lap. “I like them, and so does John, and he’s our guest.”

“Yeah, it looks delicious. Thanks.” John passed the bowl to a cringing Sherlock. John smiled apologetically.

“It doesn’t matter if you pick them out, you can still taste them,” Harry insisted.

“Oh, for the love of God, Harry,” Clara sighed. “There’s garlic toast, Aubergine Parmigiana, and the salad you made. You won’t starve if you skip the spaghetti.”

“More lemonade?” John asked brightly, lifting the bottle. He refilled Harry’s glass when she waggled it.

“So, I was reading an article in the paper about a proposed European ban on all pesticides that might harm the bees.” Clara turned toward Sherlock. “It said the Tories were trying to water it down, still allow some to be used in the UK.”

“No, it will go through as planned.” Sherlock scooped up a dainty bite from his plate.

“You sound so sure,” Harry said, frowning.

“I’ve  . . . connections with the government,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Oh, really?” Clara raised her eyebrows.

“Ha,” John barked. “His brother, Mycroft, practically IS the British government.”

“Well, that’s handy.” Clara nodded. “My brother just works in sales.”

“Clara, I noticed you have some _Echium vulgare_ growing in your front garden. How did you get it to do so well in the shade? Did you add any special fertilizer to the soil?” Sherlock asked.

“I did, actually.” Clara warmed quickly to the topic. “Just the stuff you get at the gardening store though, nothing special.” 

“Oh really? Have you tried . . .”

John watched fondly as Sherlock chatted with Clara for several minutes, the two happily swapping gardening tips. John caught Harry’s eye across the table, and they both smiled softly. Later in the kitchen, when John went to get the dessert he’d brought, Harry trailed after him.

“You look good, John. How are you feeling?” She leaned against the worktop, watching as John opened the fridge for the trifle.

“Really good actually. Shoulder and leg are both doing fine . . .”

“So, how’s the new job working out?”

“Great. I mean there’s good and bad days, but the other doctors are great to work with.” John retrieved the bowl. “I like it.” He peeled the plastic cover off the top, balling it up in his hand.

“That’s fantastic. So, how’s things with you and Sherlock?”

 “Harry. God, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never felt this way about someone before.” John chucked the ball toward the rubbish bin.

“Wow. That good?”

 “Sometimes it scares me a bit. Like it’s so good, I’m afraid I’m going to fuck it all up.” John opened the cutlery drawer looking for a big spoon.

“I know what you mean. You just do your best, yeah? Watch each other’s backs and if you fuck up, you say you’re sorry and go on.” Harry opened the right drawer and handed John a serving spoon. “When, someone really matters, you hang on with both hands.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I just worry . . .”

“What?”

“That I’m not good enough.”

“John. Jesus. Of course you’re good enough. God, when we were growing up, I thought you were sodding PERFECT. Sherlock’s lucky to get you . . . Mr. ex-soldier, doctor with a job.”

“I’m the lucky one. Really, some days I just want to pinch myself.”

“Oh go on, you sod.” The side of Harry’s mouth tugged up. “I’m happy for you, Johnny. I really am.”

“Yeah, thanks, Har.”

Harry snorted out a sudden giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“God, dad. Can you just SEE his reaction?” Harry pressed a hand to her mouth. “Two queers in the family! Imagine the Christmas dinners!”

“Thank God we don’t have to.” John mock shuddered. “Come on, grab some bowls, will you?”

John carried the pudding back to the dining table where Sherlock was sketching a diagram of his garden on the back of an envelope for Clara.

“Really, your amount of daylight is key, but you can’t beat a good fertilizer for best results.”

He looked up as John approached, a warmth in his face that started in his eyes and radiated out. It felt like sunlight appearing from behind parting clouds. John couldn’t help basking in it.

“Hope you’re in the mood for trifle.” John presented the dessert with a flourish.

“I’m always in the mood for trifle,” Sherlock smiled, but the way his eyes ran over John, it wasn’t quite clear if he was talking simply about the food.

It was all John could do to sit through the rest of dinner, listening as Harry complained about a customer at work, remembering to eat his dessert as he watched Sherlock nearly fellating his spoonfuls of cake and cream, wrapping his tongue around the base of the spoon to lick it clean.

_God, that mouth, that sinful bow of a mouth._

Finally, after a small eternity, they were able to make their exit. John promised Harry and Clara they wouldn’t be strangers as they finally waved farewell, and made their way back to the car.

“I can drive,” John said.

“Okay.” Sherlock passed him the keys.

It was a pleasure as always to feel the finely-tuned engine coming to life.  John clicked the lights on, and pulled the car away from the kerb, giving it a bit more petrol than expressly needed to take off down the street. He kept it to near the speed limit until they hit the open road, and then he let the automobile go. John took a curve a bit too fast, hugging the turn as they zoomed around, the force pressing them back against the seats. Beside him, Sherlock laughed, open throated.

 _Madmen. Which of us is meant to keep the other safe?_ John thought.

He slowed the car a bit, looking for a place to turn off. He found a small lane that led down toward the sea.

“John, this isn’t the right . . .”

“I know, I wanted to see where this one goes.” John smiled, downshifting as they rumbled along, tall grasses brushing by the doors.

John stopped when they hit open field, shutting the car off and dousing the headlights. Before them the night sky came into focus, a splash of diamond pinpricks scattered over a sheet of velvet. Far in the background, the sounds of the ocean murmured, a muted susurrus of waves crashing endlessly against the shore.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Sherlock peered out the windscreen at the gorgeous display of stars overhead.

“Yes,” John said, “lovely,” and climbed over the center panel into Sherlock’s lap.

It wasn’t easy, the car gave no extra room for easy maneuvering, and Sherlock cried out when John accidentally kneed him somewhere tender, but John managed it all the same.

“John, what in the world?” Sherlock complained, but shifted his legs to accommodate him.

“Couldn’t kiss you properly all the way over there.”

“Oh, well, that was a problem,” Sherlock agreed.

John could hardly see Sherlock’s face it was so dark, but he leaned in, curling his fingers around his shoulders, finding his mouth, kissing those warm, soft lips that parted for him, over and over, diving in deep.

Sherlock moaned, more of a rumble than actual sound, and John reached down, fumbling with Sherlock’s flies. They worked as well as they could in the cramped space, pulling at zippers and buttons, pushing fabric aside until they had erections, painfully hard, uncovered side by side.

John spat into his hand, grinning and wrapped it around them both.

“Unnngh, God,” Sherlock groaned, head whumping back against his head rest.

“Oh, yes, baby, yes,” John chanted, sliding his hand over them.

It was gloriously wicked, shagging outside in the dark where anyone could drive up and shine headlights on them, see them coming apart on top of each other. It was also horribly cramped, two full-grown men wedged into a front seat built for one. Everything felt too much and not enough as John’s knee dug into the side of the door. For a moment, John imagined he was eighteen again, and feeling up Sheila Matthews’ tits in the backseat of his father’s car, hot and awkward.

“John,” Sherlock’s deep voice gasped, his stubbled cheek pressed against John’s throat as his long fingers dug into the sides of his arse, hanging on.

John exploded, a wave of sheer relief washing over him as he came, Sherlock following shortly after.

“God, love you,” John panted when he could speak again. “Love you.” He pressed open mouthed kisses across Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock sighed, returning the kisses that came near his mouth. “Love you too, John.”

They cleaned up as best they could with an old packet of tissues Sherlock unearthed from somewhere, tucking themselves away, and pulling clothes back to right. With a last kiss, John climbed back to the driver’s seat, trying not to elbow Sherlock in the face on the way.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?” John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“Couldn’t wait to have you,” John said, starting the car. “Besides, who knows what we’ll find at the house when we get there. Decided I wanted you alone for a few minutes.”

Sherlock giggled, deep and musical, a sound that skittered up the back of John’s neck, flowing down his ears like warm honey as he threw the car into reverse, and started toward home.

)0(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, notes, notes:  
> I wanted you all to know that I did some serious research for writing this chapter!!! (Sort of ;) I’d have to say the time lines on this are all a bit fuzzy. It was pre-2017 when John came back from Afghanistan, and BBC Sherlock of course opened in 2010, but I’ve been a bit loose with some real world things that intersect with this story.
> 
> A player named Javier Hernández was traded to the Manchester United Football team in 2010, but the talk about the Tories wanting to water down a law restricting pesticide use in the UK is absolutely a modern-day news event.
> 
> The American company AMGEN did allow research on Celiac drugs to be passed to a subsidiary and that happened around 2015. 
> 
> I could not find an extremely posh French restaurant in the Brighton area of the caliber listed here, but who knows, surely there’s something that’s expensive and pretentious somewhere around Sussex. (God, I lost myself a bit clicking through menus. [Petite Pois](http://petitpoisbrighton.co.uk/) in Brighton sounds fantastic!)
> 
> The Esperance Hospital is the name of an actual private hospital in Eastbourne though I have no idea if they hold a charity ball in the Autumn. ;)
> 
> Finally, the store, Marks & Spencer, (or Marks & Sparks as it is affectionately called by the locals) does offer a variety of nice desserts ready-made, and to order with a day or two of advance notice. Although I could not find a large trifle as one of the options online, it seemed too quintessentially British to not chose it. So there we go, fact and fiction intertwined!
> 
> EXTRA NOTE: I forgot to mention, Victor's musings on California beaches and surfing are a direct result of me having surfing on the brain from this fantastic fic - [Gimme Shelter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11578941) by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John. If you think you might enjoy a bit of 1970's American AU, surfer Sherlock and John, by all means, haul yourself over there, pronto. This story is sheer magic!


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again many thanks for ChrisCalledMeSweetie for her very fine beta services. Hope people enjoy the latest installment. Fair warning . . . hold onto your hats, there's a bit of turbulent weather on the good ship Johnlock today!

 

An explosion sounded nearby. Chaos. Confusion. John tracked the whoop of the helicopter overhead, a roar of gunfire, and someone screaming. He curled into himself instinctively, trying to blink away the dust clouding his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw the soldier thrown on the ground before him. His right arm had come off. Horrified, John scooped it up, trying to snap it back on, as if the man were a lego person. Miraculously, the parts connected. As soon as John had finished though, his other arm fell off. When John grabbed for it, both of the man’s legs broke away.

“Nooo!”

John worked as fast as he could to save the soldier, but when he had finished, there were a dozen more men lying nearby with broken-off limbs. It was hopeless. He'd never get to them all in time.

“Oh, God, _no_!” John cried, trying to move, trying to reach them anyway.

Something big tackled him from behind, trapping his legs and arms, crushing him into the dirt. John struggled to get free, howling.

“JOHN.”

He flailed wildly, trying to inflict damage, get away . . .

 “John! Wake up! You’re dreaming! JOHN!”

John woke with a gasp, blankets twisted around his legs, and a dark shape looming over him.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock moved back.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so.” John pushed upright to lean against the headboard. He felt as though he’d just come from a fast run, struggling to get his breath back. A feeling of _not right_ clung to his skin.

“I’ll get you some water.” Sherlock squeezed his good shoulder, his departure shifting the mattress as he slid off the bed.

John leaned over to snap on the bedside lamp. The soft light illuminated the room, bringing the familiar things into view, a dresser, a wardrobe, clothes draped over the back of an antique chair. John rubbed a hand over his eyes. _Fuck._

“Here you are.” Sherlock extended a glass John’s way.

When he looked up to take it, he saw the angry red mark under Sherlock’s eye.

“Oh, God, Sherlock, what happened?”

“It’s fine. You were having a nightmare.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I attacked you.” John could scarcely get the words out.

“You were moaning, thrashing. I tried to wake you, but shaking you was obviously a bad idea.” Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. “Next time I won’t touch you.”

“Oh, Christ,” John groaned. He shoved the glass onto the bedside table. “Come here, let me look.”

“John, it’s fine.” Sherlock shook his head, but consented to move closer. He sat patiently, letting John’s careful fingers palpitate the skin around the eye socket until he was certain nothing was badly damaged.

“You need ice at the least,” John gritted out.

Although Sherlock protested that it wasn’t necessary, John insisted, heading downstairs to fetch a plastic bag he filled with ice cubes and wrapped in a dishtowel. Sherlock was back under the duvet reading his phone when John returned. The cool light from his screen threw his features into sharp relief, the mark on his cheek looking even uglier.  John swallowed sharply.

“Here, a couple of minutes should do it.” John presented Sherlock with the wrapped ice. “Apply some pressure.”

“Thank you” Sherlock dropped the phone to his bedside table to take it.

John waited, watching as Sherlock dutifully held the bundle to his cheek.

“Look, I could go sleep in another room,” John sighed.

“Absolutely not.”  Sherlock sat up, letting the towel fall away.

“Sherlock . . .”

“Get back in bed this instant.” Sherlock flipped the duvet back defiantly.

John’s left hand twitched as he stood, rigid, eyes locked with Sherlock’s fiery blue stare.

“Okay.” John folded.

He crawled back into bed beside Sherlock, which was really the only place he wanted to be. He settled himself stiffly, keeping far away from Sherlock, something the other man allowed for half a minute before gathering him in. John allowed himself to be manhandled until his face was pressed against Sherlock’s neck. John breathed in the familiar, sleepy smell of him, and wanted to simply die.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I’m so . . .” John was horrified when his eyes filled with tears.

“I know you wouldn’t strike me on purpose, John,” Sherlock said softly, rubbing a comforting hand down his back. “I’ve been reading about night terrors. Perhaps if I wake you with sound instead of touch, calling you from across the room, things will go better.”

“Yeah?” John pulled back. “And what if I simply attack you in your sleep?”

“I’m a light sleeper.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I doubt I’d sleep through you having a nightmare. You’re quite vocal.”

“God.” That wasn’t exactly what John wanted to hear.

“Shh. Stop thinking so much.” Sherlock gathered him back in.

When John felt his blood pressure settle, he turned off the bedside lamp, and they eventually fell back asleep, Sherlock with the ice pack propped against his face.

When John’s alarm bleeped the next morning, Sherlock lifted his head, squinting at John sleepily. Even in the dim light, John could see the bruise that had purpled the flesh under his eye.

“Hey, go back to sleep if you can. Take some paracetamol if your cheek hurts, okay?”

Sherlock mumbled something affirmative, and settled back under the covers.

The work day wasn’t too strenuous, but enough patients showed up at the surgery that John could lose himself in the hustle and bustle of the day. When he got home, dropping his keys and wallet on the table in the hallway, he could hear noise in the kitchen. John pushed through the door expecting to find Sherlock, but it was Mrs. Hudson in a pair of yellow gloves scrubbing at the worktop.

“Mrs. H, we have a cleaning service. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but Sherlock was experimenting again,” she said, giving a spot a last swish with the sponge. “I popped over with a casserole I thought you might like, and couldn’t help doing a bit of tidying.”

“Ah, well, thank you. You’re too good to us.” John smiled. “Where is he, then?”

“Garden. Weeding I think.”  Mrs. Hudson pulled off the gloves with a snap, setting them beside the sink.

“I think I’ll go say hello.”

“Of course, dear. So, have a bit of a domestic, did you?” She turned to face John, circling a finger about her eye as she glanced outside. “Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Christ, no. Of course not.” John felt a sweat break out on his forehead. “I mean it was an accident! I . . . had a nightmare.”

“Oh, John.” Her face puckered in concern.

“God, Mrs. H. I hit him. I didn’t know what I was doing.” John sank to a kitchen chair, dropping his face into his hands with a groan. “I’m dangerous.”

“No, you aren’t dangerous.” She crossed the floor to lay a hand to John’s shoulder. “My ex-husband, Frank, now HE was dangerous. You just got into spot of bother, luv.”

“What happened with your ex-husband?” John lifted his head.

“Nasty business. Drugs, other women, the shootings . . .” she trailed off. “Well, it was best when I was rid of him.”

“What . . .” John frowned.

“Oh, it’s ancient history. Not worth getting into all that now.” Hudders waved it away with a smile. She moved to check on something in the oven, turning the light on to peer inside. “Well, I’d best be off. Give the lasagna about twenty more minutes, and it should be heated through.”

“Thanks. Thank you so much.”

“Why don’t you pop out and see Sherlock, then? I know he’d appreciate knowing you were home.”

“Of course,” John said, rising.

“And John?”

“Yes?” He paused, hand at the back door.

“If it happens again, the nightmares . . . you might want to see someone. Yes?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” John nodded, blushing as he stepped outside. It had been unusually hot at midday when he’d run out for an errand, but the temperature had mellowed with the approach of evening. The flowers smelled thick and pungent, steeped all day in the warm air.

Sherlock was kneeling in the garden, half lost in the tall plants. He wore a straw hat with a brim squashed over his curls, and clothes that had once been probably quite smart, but now worn with age, looked good enough for yard work. A bee buzzed lazily over Sherlock to land on his shoulder for a moment before flying away. John smiled. Even in that ridiculous hat, he was gorgeous. Sherlock looked up as John’s shadow fell over him.

“Hey, how was your day?” John asked fondly.

“John, I found a fascinating article online today about an infection that causes bees to mummify.” Sherlock sat back on his heels. “It’s generally caused by in infestation of _Aspergillus flavus,_ and the writer felt it could be best prevented by . . .”

John nodded, listening as Sherlock rambled on. He winced a bit when he saw how vivid the bruise had grown on Sherlock’s face. John could see why Mrs. Hudson had been concerned. He’d managed to give Sherlock quite a shiner. Sherlock rose, continuing to expound on the article as they made their way back to the house. John trailed after, following as well as he could on the fungal diseases of bees.

“Look, I got some arnica today,” John said once they were inside. “Let me put it on the . . .” John motioned toward Sherlock's cheek.

“Alright.” Sherlock found a kitchen chair, sitting still while John daubed the cool arnica gel around his eye.

The lasagna smelled fantastic. John threw some things that hadn’t gone brown yet together for a salad as Sherlock found a bottle of wine to go with it. John moaned his approval at the cheesy entrée once they’d dished it up.

“God, Mrs. Hudson spoils us.”

“She is a good cook,” Sherlock agreed, spearing up his own bite.

“She thought I was beating you,” John said a moment later, quietly.

“She’s being ridiculous.” Sherlock frowned.

“She wasn’t too far off.” 

“Now, you’re being ridiculous. John, don’t worry.” He shrugged. “I’ve had much worse.”

“Sherlock.” John leaned in. “I don’t want to be the cause of pain in your life.”

“Life is pain. It’s fine, John. I forbid you to worry about it anymore. Tell me about your run-in with Mr. Stanwell.”

“How do you know he came in today?” John said, surprised, though really he shouldn’t be. His lovely man was something of a mind reader at times.

“He’s generally in on Tuesdays.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed the trend. Well he was,” John sighed. “He thought he might have Legionnaires' disease. Sometimes I wish people didn’t have access to WebMD.”

Sherlock chuckled, and they finished the meal companionably, talking about John’s more difficult patients, and the experiment that Sherlock had spent the better part of the afternoon on. He’d been testing the solidifying point for several oils in his soap making. They did the washing up together, then drifted to the living room, John to watch a show on the telly, and Sherlock to curl up with his laptop. When the evening news came on, John turned it off with a yawn.

“Well, I’m for bed. Coming up?” John asked, rising to his feet.

“Hmm? Oh no. I’ll be along in a bit.” Sherlock glanced up from whatever he was reading so intently.

“Fine. Don’t stay up too late.” John moved to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“No, of course not,” he said absently, already absorbed in his screen again.

John smiled at his boyfriend sitting cross-legged on the sofa, hunched around his laptop like small child or perhaps an attractive gargoyle.

John threw some clothes into the washer before heading upstairs. Sherlock had left some mail on the table in the hall, and John grabbed a journal he subscribed to from under the bills and ads. He got ready for bed, changed into his pj’s, and settled under the blankets with the magazine as he waited for Sherlock to appear.

When the clock ticked closer to midnight than he liked, John sighed. He dropped his journal to the bedside table, and turned off the light. Sherlock was obviously making a late night of it.  As John tossed and turned, looking for a comfortable spot to settle, he heard one clear note from Sherlock's violin drifting up the stairs. After a few warm-up scales, Sherlock launched into a beautiful melody, something soaring and heartfelt. John couldn’t place it exactly, but he smiled into the pillow, drifting off much more easily as the lullaby eased him to sleep.

 

)0(

 

John’s phone rang as he was leaving the surgery. He fished it out of his pocket to read the screen. 

_Mycroft Holmes._

John swore under his breath. He considered not taking it, but realized that sooner or later, he was going to have this conversation. With a sigh, John swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Doctor Watson, so glad I caught you. Not busy, are you?”

“No, I’ve just left work. What do you want, Mycroft?” No sense beating around the bush.

“Can’t I simply have wanted to call for a _chat?”_ The way Mycroft Holmes said “chat” sounded as if he were using a word from another language and wasn’t quite sure of the meaning.

“I sincerely doubt it.” John waved good-bye to one of the nurses across the lot as he unlocked his car.

“Well, there is a small matter that I called to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” John slung his bag into the back before climbing into the front seat.

“Yes, it has come to my attention that a position for an A & E trauma surgeon has recently opened up in Aberdeen.”

“I see," John said, flatly.

“Since the director of the hospital owes me a favor, I could be somewhat assured of getting you the position if you were interested.”

 _Someone owing Mycroft favour. How must that feel?_ John shivered a bit despite the warmth of the car. He turned the key and punched on the air.

“Is this about Sherlock’s face? That was an accident. I told Mrs. Hudson . . .”

“Sherlock’s face?” Mycroft’s tone had suddenly gone sub-arctic. “What’s wrong with my brother’s face?”

_Shit, he hadn’t known._

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with Sherlock, and nothing is wrong with me, OR the job I currently have. Look, you can’t BRIBE me to move to Scotland, Mycroft. I don’t care how good the job is. I have to go. Good-bye.” John thumbed the end of the call, dropping the phone to the seat beside him.

He swiped a hand over his eyes, taking a deep breath before he felt steady enough to drive the car. When he turned on the radio, an old Little Mix song he liked blared out of the speakers, making him feel a bit better as he pulled out of the lot.

 

)0(

 

“John, why are you upset?” Sherlock frowned.

John was drinking a beer in front of the telly when Sherlock came in from the garden. 

“Nothing, love, just a bad day at work,” John sighed. “Had a patient with a crap diagnosis. Tests came back showing stage four liver cancer.”  It wasn’t true, but John didn’t feel like discussing Mycroft Holmes that evening.

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s frown deepened, but he came in to sit beside John on the couch. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather forget about all that when I get home.” He took a long pull from the bottle, emptying it before setting it on the coffee table.

“Of course.” Sherlock moved closer. He wrapped his arms around John, gathering him in. John let him, shifting until his face was pressed against Sherlock’s chest. His shirt was soft, and he smelled of the outdoors, and his own musky, lovely scent. John breathed him in, filling his lungs.

“I don’t have anything on for dinner. Why don’t we go out?”  Sherlock suggested.

“Yeah, okay.” John nodded against his shirt.

They took a few minutes to tidy themselves before heading off, Sherlock driving the Aston Martin.  He took them to Angelo’s. The man himself greeted them effusively again, casting a cross look at the family that happened to already be seated at the table in the window. He ushered Sherlock and John over to another just-as-nice table along the wall, producing menus with a flourish.

“Whatever you want, I prepare it myself.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock said graciously.

As the light dimmed outside, the candles cast a warm glow over the tables. The low buzz of chatter around them was pleasant, and Sherlock looked simply ravishing, the candlelight painting a buttery hue over his pale skin. John felt himself relaxing over his plate of gnocchi. They talked of nothing terribly consequential until their plates were empty. When Angelo returned, they refused dessert more emphatically than usual.

“Sorry, tomorrow’s a work day. Need to get to bed on time.” John smiled.

“Ah, you must come back when you have more time.” Angelo pulled such a disappointed face that John almost laughed.

John wrapped his hand over Sherlock’s knee on the drive home, letting the breeze from the window blow any complicated thoughts away. Sherlock grinned at him, squeezing John’s hand before moving to shift gears. Sherlock parked the Aston Martin in the garage, careful to make sure John had easy access to his car for the morning.

Their feet crunched across the gravel, Sherlock’s keys jingling as he got them out for the door.

“Thank you. That was lovely.” John went up a step, turning to face Sherlock still down on the walk, putting them at the same height. John grinned, enjoying the momentary level playing field.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed.

“I know something that would make it even lovelier.” John leaned in, propping his forearms over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“What would that be?” Sherlock purred, his voice sounding silky, sinfully low in the dark.

“You shagging me into the mattress.” John dipped his head to capture Sherlock’s lips in a soft kiss. He let his fingers tangle into the silk of Sherlock’s hair.

“Mmm, yes,” Sherlock rumbled from the back of his throat.

John titled his head to take it deeper, his tongue dipping into the welcoming heat of Sherlock’s plush mouth. It was refreshing to be the same height, not titling his head back to kiss the too-tall man. John barely registered the far-off jangle of keys dropping to the ground before Sherlock’s large hands slid around his hips to cup his arse, dragging him in. John gasped as his swiftly-rising erection made contact with Sherlock’s groin. John couldn’t help titling his pelvis, angling even closer.

“You like that, hmmmmm?” Sherlock deep baritone voice was like dark chocolate on steroids vibrating down John’s ear canal. John made a completely undignified noise as Sherlock swiveled his hips, grinding the bulge in his trousers against John’s answering heat. His plush lips moved, mouthing kisses down John’s jaw to land at the soft skin under his ear. Sherlock’s teeth bit down with infinite gentleness. A jolt of electricity shot straight to John’s penis.

“OH, Jesus, fuck. Take me to bed, Sherlock,” John groaned, feeling his legs go rubbery.

“I’m certainly endeavoring to,” Sherlock growled.

John nearly whimpered when Sherlock stepped back, cooler air rushing in between them.

“Bugger. Where did the keys go?” Sherlock asked, peering down at the ground.

John burst out laughing. He pulled out his phone and turned on its light, helping his boyfriend grub around on the walk until they found his keys in the grass by the steps. They couldn’t get the door open fast enough then, or up the stairs quick enough to suit them. Finally, clothes were scattered across the floor, and they were naked crashing into the bed together.

“Oh, I missed you,” John moaned, trying to pull Sherlock as close as possible, running his mouth and fingers over as much of him as he could reach.

It had been several days since Sherlock had come to bed when John was still awake, and his skin cried out for his touch. They wrapped limbs together, touching, patting, smoothing, marveling at having the other near. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and breathed him in.

“I missed you too,” Sherlock whispered.

It was bliss to simply rock together. John let his fingers map over the bumps of Sherlock’s spine, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades. He reached down as far as he could go, not quite making it to Sherlock’s arse.

Gradually, they pulled back enough to let fingers slip into interesting places, Sherlock wrapping his hand around John’s cock as John hung on to Sherlock’s back, waves of pleasure cresting over him with each pass of his clever hand. John could feel the pressure building and building, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Stop, love, don’t want to come yet,” John groaned, eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay,” Sherlock purred, stilling his hand as he licked up John’s neck.

“God, God, God!” John shuddered, arching his back. He opened his eyes to a heavy-lidded blue gaze simmering with want.

“God, you!” John leaned in to kiss the beautiful man again.

Their mouths clung and slid, diving together, lips and tongues, and breath co-mingling. John dragged his fingers over Sherlock’s front, finding the small nubs on his chest, stroking over them lightly.

Sherlock broke off with a groan when John suddenly pinched. John grinned wickedly as he scooted down to replace his fingers with his mouth. He licked over Sherlock’s nipples, laving gently with his tongue before latching on to suck at one.

A very unposh curse tumbled from Sherlock’s lips, his fingers sinking into John’s hair to cup the back of his skull. John chuckled, and shifted to pay attention to the other side. He could feel Sherlock’s cock twitching against his belly. It struck him as the most erotic thing ever, Sherlock sprawled beneath him, unable to hide how good John made him feel. Suddenly John couldn’t wait another minute without feeling that gorgeous cock in his mouth.

“Here, let me . . .” John slid down, pressing kisses across Sherlock’s belly until he reached his prize, Sherlock’s penis deliciously hard and waiting for him. John curled a hand around the base, and slipped the tip inside his mouth. He licked over the crown, reveling in the salty musk of him before sinking down, taking as much length inside as he could. The sounds Sherlock made were toe-curling, warming the blood pooling low in John’s belly as he sucked and dipped, weaving a rhythm.

“Jaaaawwn,” Sherlock groaned, fingers tightening in John’s hair to pull slightly. “Please, please . . .”

“Yes, love?”  John pulled off to look up at him, his lover utterly undone, writhing back and forth over the sheets.

“John, were you serious earlier . . .” Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, his gaze unfocused as he blinked at John.

“About what, sweetheart?”

“Did you want me to fuck you?”

“God, yes!” John nodded. “Please, I want that.”

“Come here. Come up here.” Sherlock wiggled his fingers.

John crawled happily back into Sherlock arms, content to be held close for a moment before Sherlock leaned away to find the lube in the drawer beside the bed. John listened avidly to the snick of the top being flipped open before Sherlock returned, sliding slippery fingers down, down until he was pressing against John’s entrance.

“Mmmm, you feel divine,” Sherlock purred, bending his head to suck at John’s neck as he pushed a finger in.

John’s higher brain functions went completely off line as Sherlock worked fingers into him, sliding, whispering naughty things in John’s ear as he opened John up. They’d done this before, and John let himself joyfully dissolve, content to let Sherlock take him apart.

“John. John, are you ready?”

Gradually, John realized that Sherlock was asking him something, not merely murmuring a patter of  love and lust.

“Hmm?”

“We don’t have to,” the gorgeous dark voice purred. “I can get you off like this.” In demonstration, a hand wrapped around his aching erection.

“No, no,” John struggled to form sentences. It was so easy just to drift in the haze of pure pleasure. “No, God, please. Want you  . . . fuck me, shag me into the bed . . .”

“Your wish is my command,” Sherlock drawled in a voice low enough to be subsonic, rumbling straight to John’s id.

John waited as Sherlock grabbed the lube, squirting out a palmfull to slick himself. He licked his lips, watching as Sherlock stoked his lovely, long cock with the wet. Sherlock looked up and caught John’s eye, his face so open, a bit nervous. John bottoming was unchartered territory, something new for both of them.

“Come here, I want you inside me,” John crooned, opening his arms, letting his legs fall apart.

Sherlock didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He moved in, pushed John’s thighs wider, climbing in to position himself before wonderfully, fantastically sinking down, and . . . GOD. John struggled to breathe as Sherlock’s shaft pierced him. A burn spread over John as he stretched to accommodate. With a small grunt, Sherlock sank home, bottoming out as to lie flush against him.

“Aaaah.”

John hooked his calves behind Sherlock, holding him as close as he could.

“Oh, you feel, you feel . . .” Sherlock sounded surprised, he trailed off, deciding his mouth was better suited to dropping kisses over John’s face.

Eventually, they began rocking, moving as Sherlock slid in and out, the pressure rising, building. Sherlock changed his angle slightly, and John cried out, a surprised string of curses.

“Yes?” Sherlock breathed.

“YES, YES, OH MY GOD, YES!” John’s head pressed back into the mattress as he canted his hips up.

When Sherlock reached a hand between them to grasp John’s cock, he was done for, spiraling out quite spectacularly as pleasure swallowed him whole. Sherlock jerked, crying out, his cock swelling fractionally larger as he stuttered out his own release.

John felt as though he’d just survived a hurricane when Sherlock finally collapsed over him, utterly spent.

“Mmm, love you,” John murmured when he could speak, flopping a hand to pat at Sherlock’s back.

“Yes, that,” Sherlock muttered, lying bonelessly over him.

As Sherlock softened and slipped out of him, John became aware of Sherlock’s dead weight crushing him into the bed, and the fluids sliding over his skin.

“Up, up!” John urged, dashing to the loo to mop up. He gave himself a cursory wash at the sink, catching his reflection in the mirror, hair sticking up, a red flush over his skin, and a smile wide enough to crease his cheeks.

“Watson, you old dog, still got it,” he winked at himself. He returned with a damp flannel for Sherlock, but the man was already out.

“Love you,” John whispered, wiping his boyfriend clean before rolling him to his side to get the covers over him.

“John .  . .” Sherlock mumbled, half rousing as John pulled up the duvet.

“Yeah, go back to sleep, you’ve earned it, tiger.” John smiled.

John leaned in, pressing a good-night kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock puckered his lips, giving a sleepy air kiss in return. John chuckled, patting his hip through the blankets. John found himself some clean pants and a tee shirt to pull on, then climbed into bed beside Sherlock. Like a heat-seeking missile, the man snuggled in beside him. John turned on his side, letting Sherlock spoon him, and sighed, utterly content with himself, with everything.  _God he was a lucky bastard._

 

)0( 

  
John examined the display of hands-free, clip-on torches near the hardware shop’s door, wondering if he might possibly need one. Ultimately he talked himself out of it, though they did look cool. He glanced back to see that Sherlock was next in the queue to check out with his soap-making materials, bottles of lye, and a few other fiddly things. It was busy as a Saturday morning was wont to be. John moved on to a display of long-handled lighters, thinking idly of outdoor grills when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“John! Fancy meeting you here!”

John swung about to find Dr. Sarah Sawyer holding a shopping basket.

“Oh, Sarah, hi.” A wave of hot then cold passed over the back of John’s neck.

“What are you up to today?” Sarah smiled brightly.

“Oh, you know, shopping, this and that.”  John shrugged. “And you?”

“I’m doing a bit of home repair,” Sarah said. “Had a door knob break on me. YouTube assures me it should be easy to put in a new one.” Sarah showed John the package she’d selected.

“Oh yeah, YouTube . . . great . . .” John shifted his weight, wondering if he could casually make his way out the exit.

“Are you here alone? Is your girlfriend with you?” Sarah asked.

“Oh . . . erm . . .”

Sherlock picked that moment to appear at John’s side. “I was in luck.” He peered into his bag. “They gave me a break on the strainers even though the sale ended yesterday.” He looked up and spotted Sarah. “Oh, hello.”

“Hello . . .” Sarah trailed off, confused, looking back and forth between the two men.

Sherlock was completely overdressed for the hardware store in a bespoke pair of trousers and a dark blue button-up shirt that he’d at least made slightly casual by rolling his sleeves to the elbow. John was upset to note the lingering bruise on his left cheekbone was still slightly visible.

Sherlock darted a questioning look John’s way. John took a deep breath, trying to gather his wits.

“Yeah, this is Sarah, one of the doctors I work with.” John waved an awkward hand.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Sherlock smiled charmingly as he transferred his bag to extend a hand. “Dr. Sawyer, how nice to meet you. I’m Sherlock, John’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, OH.” Sarah’s eyes widened. “Well, how nice to meet _you_.” She smiled with genuine warmth as she recovered and took his hand. “I’m afraid John’s told me nothing about you.” 

“Yeah, well . . .” John laughed self-consciously.

“John's been hiding you away," Sarah tutted. "Well, no worries, with the Autumn Ball coming up, you’ll be able to meet simply everyone in one fell swoop. I do hope I'll see you both there?”

Sherlock faltered for half a second, his smile slipping only slightly. When he came back online, he had somehow morphed into Albert, an absolutely flaming man who worked at Harry’s beauty salon.

“Oh, it sounds absolutely DELIGHTFUL.” Sherlock waved a hand about in the air, bringing it to rest on a canted hip, “but plans are still a bit up in the air, you know. John will have to let you know.” He shot John a positively besotted look.

“Yes, well, I certainly hope so.” Sarah smiled wider.

“Sarah, it was simply lovely to meet you,” Sherlock oozed her way, “but we must dash.”

“Yes, of course. I enjoyed meeting you too.” Sarah nodded.

“Ta ta!” Sherlock waggled his fingers extravagantly before turning to swish out the door.

“Yeah, see you Monday, Sarah,” John said, raising a hand in farewell before hurrying after.

“Bye!” Sarah called.

Sherlock’s long legs had already carried him to the car parked down the street when John finally caught up with him. He was tucked into the passenger seat of the Vauxhall, head down.

John pulled open the door to slide into the driver’s side, trying to pummel words into some kind of order in his brain. He needed to say something good, _fast._

“Sherlock . . . I . . .”

“I thought at first you were embarrassed to introduce me to your workmates, because you didn’t think I was socially adept enough.” Sherlock said quietly.

“What? No, of course not. Sherlock . . .”

“Then I realized it was simply the fact that I’m male.” Sherlock stared at his hands twined in his lap. “You’re ashamed to be seen with a man.”

John felt all the blood drain from his face. “No, I’m not _ashamed_ of you. I could never be ashamed of you.”

“But you are ashamed to be seen as homosexual.” Sherlock turned pale eyes filled with a world of hurt his way. “It matters to you what people think, people who know you professionally.”

“I  . . .” John had nothing to say.

Sherlock turned away. “I have some things to do. I’ll catch a cab home.”

Before John could say a word, Sherlock had swept out of the car to stalk off down the lane. John wanted to follow, but he felt paralyzed, stuck to his seat in the car. He watched forlornly as Sherlock turned stiffly around the corner. John’s insides writhed. He leaned his forehead down on the steering wheel, blowing out a breath. _God. He’d fucked it all up good and proper, hadn’t he?_

 

)0(

After a bit of a pathetic sniffle, John wiped his eyes and pulled out his phone. He dialed Sherlock’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. After stammering out a stilted message, he decided to send a text too.

_Babe, i am so sorty. PLease call, OK? Luv U_

_sorry_

John drove home, trying not to kick himself too hard, planning out his elaborate apology for when Sherlock returned. He realized halfway home that a cake from Milly’s might not go amiss, and turned around to drive back to the cake shop. Thus armed with a large cream-filled sponge, John pulled up before Holmes Manor.

It was quiet in the house, only the chime of a clock in a far room to greet him. John realized he was hardly ever home alone. He put the cake away in the fridge, and then flitted about, unable to really settle. The maid service had been in a few days ago, but there was always clutter that accumulated. John gave up doing anything that took concentration and spent the afternoon tidying up, finally putting away the books and clothes he’d left scattered around the bedroom. Sherlock had left a pair of pyjamas folded up on a chair by the bed, and John hesitated, leaving them there as he carried things down to wash.

He took some salmon out of the freezer to thaw for dinner. They’d been meaning to swing by the grocery that afternoon and supplies were a bit thin. By nightfall, when Sherlock still hadn’t surfaced or contacted him, John got nervous. He’d had his phone in his back pocket all day, and had checked it obsessively, but Sherlock still hadn’t called. John left yet another pleading message, and ate a bowl of cereal in front of the telly. Leaving the phone on the coffee table, he popped on a DVD, an old Bond flick, and made himself comfortable on the sofa, determined to stay up for Sherlock’s return.

John woke to morning light spilling in the windows. The telly was turned off and he had a throw blanket pulled over him. _Sherlock._

John raced upstairs to the bedroom, but the bed was empty, still made up from yesterday. He ran through the house calling Sherlock’s name, but no one answered. When he made it back to the living room, he spied his phone still on the coffee table, and thumbed it to life, checking his messages. There was finally a text from Sherlock.

_I’ve been given a case in London that needs my attention. Will be gone a few days. – SH_

John felt his blood run cold. When he returned to the bedroom, he looked more closely, opening the wardrobe. Sherlock had taken several of his suits, and the rolling bag on the floor was now missing. Even the pyjamas on the chair were gone. John tugged at his hair. Sherlock had walked through the house, calmly packed a bag, pulled a blanket over John and then left without waking him, without saying a word. John sank to the bed, a horrible sound winding its way from his throat.

John must have fallen asleep again, as it was fully afternoon, bright light streaming in the window when he opened his eyes next. At first he looked around, wondering where Sherlock was, when the memory of the last day rolled over him. With a groan, John made himself get up and take a shower.

He eventually retrieved his phone from the coffee table, plugging it in to be charged. He checked the messages again, hopeful, but found nothing new from Sherlock, only a couple of texts from Harry that he’d missed earlier. The time stamp said just after midnight.

_Did u and Sherlock have a fight? He just left, acting weird._

_Well, more weird than usual._

John punched in Harry’s number as fast as he could. He listened to it ring and ring before Harry finally picked up.

“Hey, John, what’s up?” Harry said.

“When did Sherlock come over?”

“Oh, I dunno – it was pretty late, must have been after eleven. Clara and I were just getting ready for bed. I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up. What’s going on with you two?”

“Oh God, Harry. I think he’s left me.”

“WHAT?”

John tried to babble out what had happened when Harry cut over him.

“Christ, John, slow down. Why don’t you come over? Clara’s been baking.”

“Yeah, okay.”

John realized he was still wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and went upstairs to change. He drove his car over to Harry’s, careful to follow the speed limit, and watch out for traffic after he almost ran someone on a bicycle off the road.

Harry and Clara pulled sympathetic faces and sat John down with tea and muffins that he really didn’t want. Much more calmly, he managed to go over the events of the weekend.

“I’m an idiot.” John ran a hand back through his hair, miserably. “I should have told Sarah, told everyone earlier about Sherlock. There just never seemed to be a good time.”

“It can be hard to come out at work,” Clara said sympathetically.

“Alright, fine, so you fucked things up. Tell him you’re sorry.” Harry crossed her arms over her chest.

“What do you think I’ve been DOING for the last twenty four hours?” John exploded.

“Christ, John, keep your shirt on. Does he go to London often?” Harry asked.

“No. Well, maybe sometimes. I dunno. He hasn’t gone since we’ve been together, but he said he did that, went in to London to consult with the police sometimes.”

“Well, then it’s unusual, and certainly bad timing, but not the end of the world,” Clara offered.

“How was he last night? What did he say? How did he look?” John rounded on Harry.

“He was odd, but then he’s always odd.” Harry shrugged. “I dunno, he was probably only here half an hour before he stomped back out. He asked a bunch of questions about you, about dad.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. You never had a boyfriend that I knew about, and dad was a right sorry bastard when I came out.” Harry leaned in. “John, I’m sorry. Look, give him a couple of days to cool down. When he comes home, you can apologize properly in person, talk it over.”

“You two are good together.” Clara smiled. “I’m sure this will all blow over soon.”

“Yeah, okay, I hope so.” John tried to smile.

He ended up spending the rest of the day with Harry and Clara, helping them out around the house, and staying for dinner. Finally, as it grew later in the evening, he had to beg off, go home to sleep and get ready for work.

“Are you sure?” Clara asked. “You’re welcome to stay here if you want to.”

“No, I’ve got all my clothes at Sherlock’s,” John said. “Besides, it’s closer to the surgery.”

“Okay, call if you need anything, knobhead.” Harry punched his shoulder, the good one.

“Yup, thanks, Har.”

It was hard going back to the big house on his own. All night, John listened to the place creak and settle, each time thinking it might be Sherlock coming home early. Sadly, no one was there when he got up to check. He slept fitfully, waking up tired and groggy to his morning alarm.

John had a cup of tea, but didn’t have the heart to fix any food for breakfast. At work, he struggled to put on a good face, to rally up the energy to give his patients the attention they deserved. When Sarah stopped by his office to say hello, it was salt in an open wound.

“John, I’m so sorry, I realized I kept prattling on about your girlfriend. I just assumed, and I never gave you a chance to say any different.”

“It’s okay. It was my fault. I really should have said something earlier.”

“Sherlock was lovely. I’m so glad I got a chance to meet him.”

“Thanks, I think he’s pretty special.” John managed a smile.

When John reached his car at the end of the day, he realized the bag of things Sherlock had picked up from the hardware store was still in the back seat. He almost started crying right there in the parking lot. 

He went for a drive rather than go straight home, ending up in the tourist lot at the cliffs where the stairway led down to the beach. John pulled his phone out again. He’d sent several more text messages over the course of the day.

_Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Please answer me._

_Please call or text, let me know you’re okay._

_When are you coming home?_

_Sherlock, please?_

He nearly dropped the phone when he realized Sherlock had finally texted him back.

_Busy. Case is complicated. Can’t really talk. Am staying with Victor in his new flat.  Will call when I know more. – SH_

John wanted to sink into the ground, be swallowed up by the cool dark earth, burrow his way down into the roots and rocks, and curl up like a little seed.

_God, at least he said he’d call. It wasn’t a good-bye, not really._

John took the stairs down to the beach. A number of holiday-makers were still out, enjoying the views, snapping pictures, playing in the water. John walked along the shore, letting the wind blow against him until it started getting dark, and he had to make his way back home.

 

)0(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is all the sad. I made myself sad with this, but it will get better, I promise!


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many heaping thanks to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for some fabulous and very quick beta work. I so appreciate it! If anyone is keeping track of the chapter count, we have one more chapter left to go before this fun little tale is at an end. Many thanks to all who've followed along with a work in progress. It's been a good ride!
> 
> TW - there are some mentions of violence, gore, and murder in relation to a case in this chapter.

)0(

 

John ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. He sighed and reached for his cup of tea only to find it had gone quite cold. He contemplated making another, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. John looked out the kitchen window at the slanting morning light washing over the garden, and sighed again.

Most of the blooms had withered away as summer slid into autumn, and the bees were definitely slowing down. John assumed they did some sort of hibernation in the winter. He would have asked Sherlock to explain it all, at great length no doubt, but Sherlock had been gone for almost a week, and wasn’t telling John much of anything at the moment.  John was starting to wonder if this was it, his cue to leave and move back in with Harry.

When the back door rattled open, John sat up, his heart nearly leaping out of his throat. He tried to keep the disappointment off of his face when it turned out to be Mrs. Hudson with a stack of tupperware.

“Hoo hoo! Everyone decent?” she called out, eyes closed

“It’s just me, Mrs. H, and I’m dressed.” John glanced down at his old tee shirt and worn pyjama bottoms. He certainly wasn’t the height of fashion, but at least he was covered.

“Where’s himself, then?” She bustled in, carrying her load to the table.

“London,” John croaked, hating how his rusty voice cracked on the word.

“London?  Is it some big Farmers’ Market, then?” Mrs. Hudson unsnapped the top container.

“No.” John picked up his cup and took a sip, forgetting it was stone cold. He grimaced. “It’s a case with the police. He’s consulting. Or so I gather.”

“How long has he been gone, luv?”  Mrs. Hudson frowned, setting a collection of biscuits to the table.

“Nearly a week,” John said dully.

“Are you joining him?” Mrs. Hudson sank into a chair.

“I’m not sure he’d want me to.” John lifted a shoulder.

“Not want you? Oh, John. You aren’t working this weekend are you?”

“No, I’m not, but I don’t even know where Sherlock is.” John tipped his cup slightly, watching the tea leaves pooled on the bottom shift. “He’s not exactly returning my texts.”

It was a terrible thing to admit. Sherlock had sent several terse messages the first few days of his absence, but even those has petered off.

“What happened? Did you have a fight? Was it more of the . . .” she leaned in, dropping her voice, “nightmares.”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” John shook his head. He took a deep breath and launched into telling her about Sarah and the Hardware Store, an epic tale that was growing larger than life in his mind with each recounting.

“Oh, John.” Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips in sympathy.

“God, I’m so sorry about it. I was such an arse.” John dragged a hand over his face wearily. “I’m just so tired of Sherlock being gone.”

John hadn’t had any more night terrors, not since the first one. He’d had trouble dropping off with Sherlock gone though, and he woke each morning feeling as if he'd hardly slept at all with a vague memory of strange dreams that left him unsettled.

“He puts up a good front, but he’s delicate, our Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson confided.

“I know.” John blinked back tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes yet again.

“Here, have a biscuit. You’re looking peaky.” She slid the container of baked goods closer to him.

John selected one, and bit into it, though his heart really wasn’t in it. Truth be told, he’d been living on slices of cream cake and cups of tea with too much honey for the bulk of the week. One night’s dinner had simply been half a jar of honey eaten with a spoon. It made John feel closer to Sherlock licking down scoops of the sticky, yellow stuff, harvested with Sherlock’s own hands.

“You must go to him. Even if he doesn’t invite you, I know he wants you there.” Mrs. Hudson nodded decisively.

“He said he was staying with his old . . . with Victor Trevor. I don’t have the address, and it’s not listed anywhere yet.”

“Oh, pish tosh. Call Mycroft. He’ll know.” Mrs. Hudson waved a careless hand. “You do have Mycroft’s number?”

“I do, but I’m not sure Mycroft is too keen on helping me.” John gripped his cup between both palms. “He’s been trying to bribe me with jobs on the other side of the country if I’ll leave Sherlock alone.”

“Well, I never.” She stood angrily, fishing into her blouse to extract her mobile phone. “Excuse me a moment.”

“Yeah, of course.”

As Mrs. Hudson stepped down the hall to conduct what sounded like a rather angry conversation with Sherlock’s brother, John dumped the rest of his tea down the sink. He flipped on the kettle to boil anew, and stared out the window as sharp tones drifted down the corridor.

John was pouring water into two cups when Mrs. Hudson returned, frowning as she listened to the phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes, alright . . .” She made a motion to John of scribbling in the air. He quickly found her a pen and a notepad.

“Yes, I see  . . .” Mrs. Hudson mouthed thank you to John as she took them, “. . . of course.”

John tried not to eavesdrop as she leaned over the table to write something down.  He busied himself finding two tea bags to dunk into the water.

“I appreciate that as well . . .  yes  . . .  good-bye.”

Apparently done with her conversation, Mrs. Hudson ripped off the top sheet and presented it to John with a flourish.

“There you are, luv, that’s Victor’s information.”

“So Sherlock told Mycroft where he was staying?” John asked, accepting the page, frowning at it. It listed an address in a very nice section of London.

“Oh, I doubt Sherlock tells his brother much of anything these days.”

“Then how . . .”

“Mycroft has his ways.” Mrs. Hudson brushed him aside. “The important thing is you have the address now. You can pack up and go after you finish your tea.”

“Yes, I suppose I can,” John said, feeling in a bit of a daze.

Less than an hour later, John was parking his car at the train station, and hauling his overnight bag with him up to the ticket window. He wasn’t sure if this was decisiveness or madness. He had no idea if Sherlock wanted to see him, but the ache of missing him was too much to continue cooling his heels in Sussex. A few months ago, John hadn’t even known Sherlock’s name, and now he was as essential as breathing. John felt like he hadn’t filled his lungs properly since Sherlock had left him outside the damn hardware store. _Christ, he was an idiot._

John bought a ticket and boarded the train when it was called, settling himself into an open seat. He stared glumly out the window as they left the station, watching as the rows of tidy houses slid by. They all looked so settled and proper, he imagined the people within somehow had their lives together, knew what they were doing, ate granola for breakfast, and hadn’t managed to scare away the love of their lives by being big knobheads. John sighed extravagantly. When the scenery melted into nothing more interesting than fields and hedgerows, John settled back, letting the motion of the train soothe him. He felt tired down to his bones. 

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

John startled from a doze to find the train stopped at the next station. A pretty young woman leaned in to point to the seat beside him.

“Oh, yeah, no, it’s free.” He blinked up at her.

“Lovely.” She smiled and made to heave her suitcase onto the rack overhead.

“Oh, here, let me.” John stood to help her shift it onto the shelf.

“Thanks ever so much,” she said a bit breathlessly.

John sat back down to allow her to take the aisle seat. She pulled out a packet of sweets, and tilted the bag toward John.

“Fancy a humbug?”

“No, thank you.” John managed a smile. “Trying to cut down on sweets. Being a doctor means you know how bad these things are for you.” John tried to blot out the memory of cream cake as dinner for four nights running.

“A doctor. How interesting.” The woman’s eyes widened as she popped the sweet into her mouth. “What sort of doctor are you?”

“I’m a general practitioner at the moment, though I was a field surgeon in the army for awhile.”

“Ooh, a doctor and a soldier.” She leaned in closer. “How lovely.”

“Thanks. And what do you do?” John found his manners running on auto pilot.

“Nothing so exciting.” The woman shrugged. “I’m in sales. For a paper company. I’m Jeanette, by the way.” She extended a hand.

“John,” he said, producing a smile as he took her hand. “Paper, hmmm?”

“Like I said, not too glamorous.” Jeanette tittered a laugh. “I’m off to a seminar in London though. Two days. How about yourself. Business or pleasure?”

“Erm, just a personal trip,” John demurred.

 “Sight-seeing? It’s a good place for it, innit? Catch a show? Museums?”

John took a deep breath. “Actually I’m joining my partner. He’s there on business.”

“Your partner? Is that another doctor you work with?”

John took another breath. “No, my boyfriend actually. He’s been gone for a week, and I really miss him.”

“Aah.” A certain look rippled over the woman’s face. “How nice. Hope you have a good mini-break together, then.”

“Thanks, I hope so.”

“Hey, do you know any good clubs in London? I hear the gay bars are always the most fun.” Her eyes lit up again.

“Sorry.” John shook his head. “I’ve not been in London for years.”

“No worries.” Jeanette reached into her handbag to pull out a tablet. Soon she was ignoring John to click away at a flashing game on the screen. John was left to stare out the window, hoping against hope that his trip _would_ go well. He felt a twinge in his leg, and rubbed a hand absently down his thigh. Since Sherlock’s absence, his psychosomatic limp had made a bit of an annoying comeback.

“Have a nice time in London with your boyfriend.” His seat mate finally spoke again when the train eased to a stop at Waterloo Station.

“Oh, you too. Erm, hope you have a good trip.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, and pulled her suitcase down before wading into the crowd gathered by the door. John waited a moment or two for things to clear before fetching his own bag.

Quickly enough John made his way into the bustle of the station, and out onto the street. The smell of London enveloped him, the wet pavement, car exhaust, and something sharp, almost electric, the buzz of so many people, so much activity.  After the quiet hum of the Sussex area, it was a bit overwhelming. John managed to locate an empty taxi. He found his phone and read the address he’d typed in earlier when the driver asked him where he was going.

It hit him then, as the taxi weaved its way through the busy streets. He was actually here, and he still had no idea what he was going to say to Sherlock. John bit his knuckle as the tall stone buildings slid by outside the window. Sooner than he liked, the driver was pulling up to the kerb by a brick townhouse.

“Here ya go, mate.”

“Thank you.” John pulled out the money to pay the man, and collected his bag.

He felt a tiny bit bereft as he watched the taxi pull away. A stiff breeze had picked up, and John zipped his jacket higher. Throwing his shoulders back, he stumped his way to the glossy black door with the right number, and pressed the doorbell. After an agonizing wait, the door finally opened, and none other than handsome Victor popped his head out.

“Ha. Lion Man.” A smile creased Victor’s broad face. “Wondered when I’d see you again.”

“Right, I’m looking for . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, come on in.” Victor held the door open for him. “Don’t stay out in the cold.”

“It’s not that cold,” John said, moving into a dim foyer that smelled pleasantly of lemon furniture polish.

“I’ve thin blood now from all my time in California.” Victor shut the door behind him.

“Well, yeah, I got used to some heat in Afghanistan.”

“Come on up, I’m on the first floor.” Victor led the way to the stairs.

The flat was a mix of old and new with retro wallpaper and classic molding around the windows and walls, but sleek, ultra modern furniture dotted about. A number of boxes stacked against the wall further muddied the aesthetic.

“I’m still moving in. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Okay.” Victor sat in one of the minimalist arm chairs, waving John toward another. “How are you?”

“Frankly, rather awful,” John said, ignoring the dodgy-looking metal and leather contraption to pace about the room. “Is he here?”

“I’ve hardly seen him all week,” Victor shrugged, “but the guest bed occasionally looks a bit rumpled so I’ve either got a ghost or Sherlock’s been kipping a few hours in the middle of the night.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Some big drug trafficking case, a couple of murders. We talked a bit when he first arrived, and then I saw him briefly on Wednesday. What’s he told you?”

“A fat load of nothing, really.” John moved to glance out the front window watching as a few cars made their way slowly down the street. “He’s not taken one of my calls, and he sent a few texts at first, but then,” John flung a hand up, “ . . . silence.”

“He gets that way, you know,” Victor said. “It’s nothing personal. He’ll come back around when things are done.”

John turned to fully regard Victor. The man sat comfortably, sprawled over the armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight. John sighed, and crossed the room to take the other chair. He sank down gingerly onto the slings of material that made the seat and back. He was grateful when it didn’t immediately collapse.

“Victor, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Fire away.” He spread his hands in a companionable gesture.

“Were you and Sherlock ever . . . did you ever plan a future together. . . back in uni?”

Victor laughed. “It wasn’t like that. It's . . . complicated. I like women mostly . . . but Sherlock just had a way of getting under my skin. He’s something else.”

“Yes, he is.” John felt a bit of the coiled ball of tension in his chest easing.

“No, it was that wanker, Sebastian Wilkes, who had Sherlock dancing to his tune. I tried to warn him.” Victor shook his head. “But did he listen? Noooo. Not our genius.”

“Oh really?” The ball of tension snapped back in full force. “Who the hell is Sebastian Wilkes?”

“Posh party boy and complete lowlife. For some reason Sherlock was arse over tit for him. It was suddenly _Sebastian this_ and _Sebastian that_.” Victor made a rude noise. “He’s a banker in the city now. Wife, couple of kids.”

“He's the one that fucked off? Broke Sherlock's heart?”

Victor looked away. He pressed a finger to his mouth, tapping his lower lip as if afraid to open it and let something unwanted slip out.

“Victor,” John cajoled.

“It wasn’t until after we’d graduated that it all went balls up. I was away, out of London, missed most of it.” Victor leaned forward to reach a side table, pulling a drawer open to extract a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Do you mind?” He raised an eyebrow John’s way.

“No, go ahead.”

John watched as Victor nimbly plucked a fag out of the packet and placed it between his lips. With a snap of the lighter he had the end lit. Victor sat back, blowing out a line of smoke as he tossed the lighter back into the drawer.

“So what happened?” John prodded.

 “There were lots of parties back in uni, the usual rubbish, but once we graduated, _then_ the lads could afford the better drugs.”

“Oh yeah?” John could feel his blood pressure start to rise.

“Sherlock got into the hard stuff with Seb and his crowd. From what I heard, Sherlock was arrested with half a kilo of coke on him for one of their big parties.” Victor inhaled around the cigarette.

“Oh God,” John breathed.

“Oh yes.” Victor stood, moving across the room to find an ashtray stuck behind a potted plant. He brought it back to his chair, placing it nearby on the side table. “Suddenly no one in that crowd knew his name. He might have gone to jail if big brother hadn’t stepped in.” Victor tapped ash into the small glass bowl.

“I can imagine.” John winced.

“When that blew over, old Sebbie broke up with him. It was something very ugly and very public. Our boy fell into a drugs bender. He was in rehab by the time I heard anything about it.”  

“Jesus,” John said, rubbing at his forehead.

“Yeah, I wish I could have done something to help, but I was in Ibiza at the time, and Sherlock was . . . well, you know how he can shut people out.” Victor took another pull from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out meditatively.

“God, Victor. He’s not answering my texts at all. I’m not even sure if he’s broken up with me or not.” The smell of tobacco smoke was sharp in John’s nose. Surely it was that bringing the sudden lump into his throat. “I thought the least I could do was come up and hear it from him in person.”

“Naw, John. Don’t think like that.” Victor took a final pull from the cigarette, reaching over to grind it out in the ashtray. “I’ve never seen Sherlock take to anyone like he has with you. Not even Sebastian moved in with him.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You and Sherlock looked pretty close. Seems like you two could have given it a go.” John couldn’t stop the awful words, they just popped out.

“Ha.” Victor barked a short laugh. “No, mate. Honestly, we’re too much alike. Besides,” he cupped his hands over his chest, “I’d miss knockers too much.”

It was John’s turn to huff a laugh. “God, Victor. I’d never speak to another woman again if Sherlock would just come home.”

“Hey. He’s working, he gets obsessed with things when he’s working. It won’t last. I know he’s gone on you.”

“Did he say something about me?” John couldn’t help the small flare of hope in his chest.

“Like I said, he’s been scarce.” Victor shrugged. “When I saw him, all we really talked about was the case.”

“Fuck.” John pushed both hands back through his hair. The spark flickered out.

“I know where you might find him, though.”

“Yeah?” John looked up, feeling another small light kindle.

“He’s been working with New Scotland Yard. There’s a bloke he checks in with . . . Graham Lestrade or something?” Victor shrugged. “Why don’t you go see him?”

“What, at Scotland Yard?”

“It’s your best bet for finding Sherlock if he isn’t answering his phone. Or you can wait here. He’s bound to show up eventually.”

“No, no, I’ve come this far. I might as well see if I can track him down.” John pulled himself to standing, moving to fetch the duffle he’d dropped by the door.

“No, don’t take the bag.” Victor stopped him. “Guest bedroom’s in here. Might as well leave it.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” 

John followed Victor down a corridor to a room with tall windows covered with blinds and bare curtain rods, a double bed with a dark duvet, and wonder of wonders, Sherlock’s things, his bag on the floor and some toiletries scattered over the top of a dresser. John wanted to touch them all, take the shirt balled up on the floor and press it to his face, but with Victor there, he settled for staring at them all longingly while dropping his bag at the foot of the bed.

“You’re welcome to stay here whether you catch up with Sherlock or not.”

“Okay, great.”  

“St. James Park is the tube stop closest to Scotland Yard. You'll need the Central or District line to reach it. ” Victor leaned against the door frame. "There's a station at the end of the street." He tipped his chin toward the windows.

“Thanks, man.” John nodded, his voice feeling tight again.

“Yeah, no worries. Just invite me to the wedding.”

John huffed out a laugh. “You can be best man, yeah? Assuming he ever speaks to me again.”

“John, don’t worry, mate. You’re _in_.” Victor moved to slap his shoulder. “You two will work it out.”

 

)0(

 

John found the tube stop readily enough, bought a fare card, and located the right stairs. He moved as briskly as he could, trying not to be squashed by the travelers marching quickly by. Even on a Saturday, everyone looked in a great hurry to be somewhere. When John reached the platform, he was happy to find an empty bench to sit on. His leg continued to ache, and he stretched it out gratefully before him. He saw a couple, just teenagers really, two girls with hands entwined, kissing and giggling by the wall. They were in a world of their own, and he couldn’t help smiling.

 _Oh, young love._ You can’t image that anything could ever go wrong if you’ve never had your heart broken before. John envied them.

He flashed back to a beautiful boy who’d sat in front of him in organic chemistry at uni. He’d been called David. John had gone nearly mad for a semester over a single ginger curl that hung over the nape of his long neck. Sadly he’d never found the courage to do more than exchange a few words with him in class. It had been easier to date a string of girls then to admit anything about . . . David.

Then there’d been a few men in Afghanistan. It had been release, pure and simple, just blokes blowing off some tension, nothing serious, until one man had become quite serious to him. John still dreamed occasionally about James and his large, beautiful hands. They’d kept things quiet, so very quiet, and then John had been shot, and James wounded, and nothing had ever been the same again.

John stood as the train rattled in to the station, wondering what he was actually going to say to Sherlock if and when he managed to be in a room with him. _Forgive me, I’m an idiot_ , seemed like a good opener. He’d just have to trust that something good would come to him. John followed the queue of people into the carriage when the doors opened.

His mind skittered back to Victor and his quip about the wedding as he found a pole to hang on to. It wasn’t something he’d spent time thinking about, but once Victor had said it, it made perfect sense. Why not get married? John loved Sherlock with all his heart and soul. Why not make it official? No reason to hide anymore . . . if Sherlock wasn’t done with him of course.

John reached the imposing building that housed New Scotland Yard without mishap. He pushed his way nervously past the front door into the chaos, and asked at the front desk to speak to D.I. Lestrade about a matter of some urgency. He used his Captain John Watson voice to sound firm, and thankfully, without having to reveal how ridiculous his reason actually was, John was led inside.

“You’re lucky D.I. Lestrade is in today, he doesn’t generally work Saturdays.” The officer informed John as he marched him past a room full of people busy at their desks.

“Yeah, thanks, mate.”

“He’s in here.” The man pointed to a window that looked into a conference room with a long table and chairs. 

John hardly registered the older man with salt and pepper hair sitting inside, as his eyes had already flown to the tall figure in a dark jacket gesturing to a collection of photos that had been tacked to the wall. _Sherlock._

“D.I. Lestrade? There’s a Dr. Watson here that wants to talk to you.” The officer opened the door to announce him.

Sherlock whipped around at his name, his piercing blue gaze finding John instantly behind the man. John’s mouth went dry.

“Erm, hello.” John gave a weak little half-wave as the officer ushered him into the room before departing.

“John? What are you doing here?” Sherlock looked exhausted, his hair unruly as if he’d been tugging at his curls, but he was long and lithe and gorgeous all the same. John wanted to devour him in great heaping bites.

“Sherlock, do you know this man?” The detective inspector had risen, confusion writ across his face.

“Yes, this is my . . . housemate, I’m not sure why he . . .”

“Boyfriend, actually. Dr. John Watson. How do you do?” John stuck a hand out to the older man.

“Good. So you’re Sherlock’s  . . . boyfriend? Well fancy that.” Lestrade looked amused as he clasped John’s hand warmly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was looking for Sherlock, actually. If you don’t mind, I wanted to speak with him.”

“No, please, be my guest.” He smiled indulgently as he swept a hand toward Sherlock who had shrunk back, narrowing his eyes at John.

“John, I’m a little busy at the moment . . .” Sherlock drew taller, formal and aloof, like a small island with an icy sea forming around him.

“Yeah, just five minutes, please.” John desperately wanted to bridge the gap between them, take the man into his arms before he drifted away even further.

“Alright, fine. Graham, if you’ll excuse us?” Sherlock’s haughty diction was sharp as glass.

“It’s Greg, and take more than five if you need it. I’m going to grab a sandwich. You want anything?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock eyes were almost nervous as he watched the man leave the room.

“Sherlock!” John pounced as soon as the door swished closed. “God, why didn’t you answer any of my messages? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I sent you several texts, told you where I was going.”

“Yeah, six days ago!” John exploded.

“You knew when you met me that I consulted with the Met. I told you I went to London.” Sherlock’s face had slid into an expressionless mask.

“Sweetheart, don’t. Don’t shut me out like this. I’m sorry. God. I’m so sorry. About everything, okay? Sarah and the damn ball, and  . .  .”  John reached out to touch Sherlock.

“I have work to do, John.” Sherlock stepped back, evading him. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Oh . . . right. Yeah. God, I’m an idiot.”  John raked fingers back through his hair. “Look, I can go, leave you to it. I’m sorry. I . . .”

John turned, stumbling toward the door. He needed to get out as soon as possible, leave before he broke down completely. A strong hand shot out to grab his bicep, stopping his progress.

“John, wait, please.”

He turned to find Sherlock’s eyes searching over him.

“You’ve been to Victor’s.”

“Yes, how did you . . .”

“You don’t have your bag.” Sherlock waved the question away. “The two of you talked about me.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” John licked his lips, hopeful. “Victor told me to get my arse over here.”

“John.” A pained look flickered across Sherlock’s face before he whipped away, stalking over to stare at the wall of photos and papers, his arms folded over himself.

“Sherlock,” John followed to touch his shoulder. “Love, talk to me. Please.”

Sherlock ducked his head, pulling in even tighter.

“I’m not sure how to do this.” Sherlock’s voice came out so small and quiet.

“Do what?”

“This!” Sherlock jerked around to face him. “You. Me. I don’t know how I’m meant to _feel_ about all of this, what I’m meant to say or do. John, I don’t DO relationships.”

“I thought we were doing alright up until recently. Right until I fucked everything up.”

“No, no, it isn’t just you!” Sherlock punctuated his words with his hands flung into the air. “We should have talked about it, discussed things. I know. I ran off. It isn’t how it’s done! I shouldn’t . . .” Sherlock hands fluttered about like confused birds.

“Hey.” John reached out to catch them, stilling them in his own. “We don’t have to do things like anyone else. It’s just you and me.” John softened his voice. “And I missed you. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt your work, but I couldn’t stand not seeing you, not knowing . . .”

“I missed you, too.” Sherlock’s mouth wobbled.

“God.” John tugged Sherlock closer, and this time he didn’t step away. John’s arms slid around Sherlock as he buried his face against his throat, breathing him in with great lungfuls of air. He smelled sour, of burnt coffee and old sweat, but so much of himself, John could have wept. Sherlock stood stiffly for just a moment before he melted. His arms came up to hold John close as he leaned his cheek against the top of his head.

“Please, please don’t leave me,” John whispered into Sherlock’s shirt.

“No, John. Never. I’m sorry.” His arms tightened fractionally.

They stood that way for a few moments or perhaps for an eternity, silently breathing each other’s air before a noise at the door jolted them back to the present. John suddenly remembered they were clinging to each other in a conference room in New Scotland Yard in front of a glass door and window. Sherlock leapt away as Greg Lestrade bustled into the room carrying a tray with take away cups and a paper bag.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I brought some grub anyway.” Lestrade shed his jacket to pull out several wrapped parcels from the bag. “John, did you say it was? I’ve got tuna salad, chicken, cheese and pickle . . . if you’re hungry.”

“Oh no, I should probably go, I don’t want to be in the way,” John gestured toward the door. He felt as though his face were on fire.

“Stay,” Sherlock blurted. “You won’t be in the way.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” John shifted his weight.

“Stay. You’ve helped with cases before,” Sherlock muttered quickly. “I mean, I’d like it if you stayed. Fresh eyes may help the investigation.”

“Yeah, alright I won’t say no to lunch, ta.” John removed his coat, dropping it to the back of one of the chairs, and moved toward the food on the table, suddenly feeling unbearably hungry. “Sherlock, do you want anything?”

“No, working,” Sherlock said simply as he strode back to the evidence wall.

John shrugged, picked out a sandwich, and sat down. Greg joined him, passing John a cup of tea.

“Did you say you were a doctor?” Greg asked, dropping a handful of sugar packets on the table.

“That’s right . . .”

“Army doctor,” Sherlock corrected from across the room.

“Well, retired army doctor.” John huffed a laugh, ignoring the sugar to sip his tea black. “I work as a GP at a surgery in Eastbourne now.”

“Soooo, you and Sherlock?” Greg tipped his chin toward Sherlock’s back.

“Yeah. We’ve been together about three months now,” John said breezily, unwrapping his sandwich.

“Brilliant. I thought he was harder to get ahold of than usual.” Greg nodded.

Sherlock snorted rudely from across the room.

“So what’s the case, then?” John asked around a mouthful of bread and chicken.

“There’s been a ring of murders in the shipping district,” Lestrade said. “It didn’t seem connected until we had three bodies show up in a row in very similar conditions.” Greg gestured toward the hanging photos with a sandwich half. “All were stripped to the waist, appear to have died from strangling, but showed a number of shallow knife wounds over the chest and back.” He took a large bite of his sandwich.

 “Huh.” John carried his tea and food to stand beside Sherlock at the evidence wall.  

“Do you think it’s torture?” he asked quietly scanned the gruesome images of dead bodies thumb-tacked on the wall.

“Not as such.” Sherlock shrugged. “Much of the visible injuries seem to have been inflicted after their deaths.”

“Here, hold this.” John passed Sherlock his cup of tea and the last of his sandwich as he bent in to examine the photos better.

“Did the victims have anything in common?” John asked.

“All male. Eastern European-born.” Sherlock shrugged. “Two of them worked in the dockyards, and one ran a food truck.” Sherlock absently finished the bit of sandwich. He washed it down with John’s tea, grimacing at the bitterness of it.

“Hmmm.” John tapped one of the photos. “Those cuts. They look familiar. Like tribal markings.”

“What?” Sherlock leaned in as well.

“The knife cuts here, it looks almost like a design. It’s something we saw in Afghanistan from time to time. The locals would do scarification, usually on the arm, but sometimes on the chest or back, tribal markings like a tattoo. When they got infected, they’d seek medical treatment.”

“YES. That’s it! Well, not tribal markings but just as good as! Gang signs!”  Sherlock’s eyes flared to life.

“Gang signs?” Lestrade asked, coming closer.

“Yes, it all makes sense now. Marking territory, a warning to the other side. Come on, Gavin, call for back-up. I know who’s behind this.” Sherlock grabbed his coat, and made to dash out the door.

“Well, alright then, and it’s GREG,” The D.I. said, reaching for his jacket.

“Well, should I wait . . .” John started.

“Come ON, JOHN! There’s not a moment to lose!” Sherlock bellowed, reaching for the door.

John didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his own jacket and hurried behind.

“Do you want to ride in my car?” Greg asked, keeping step.

“No, we’ll grab a taxi and you can follow behind,” Sherlock barked.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. A search at a warehouse, a few suspects run down, John tackling a man to the ground who dared to pull a knife on Sherlock, and the splash of lights from the score of panda cars that showed up to make the arrests. John was filthy and sore, and couldn’t be happier to be standing by Sherlock as the man spouted off a quick report to the police.

When Sherlock finished, looking rather smug as the hand-cuffed men were dragged away, John couldn’t help it, he dropped to his knee right there in the grimy parking lot.

“Sherlock.” John grabbed one of those lovely, long pale hands in his own.

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock looked shocked.

“Marry me.” John grinned up at him.

“No.”

“No?” John felt an icy wave crash over him.

“No. You’re flooded with adrenaline, and endorphins right now. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

“Oh, well, alright.” John struggled back to his feet, feeling like lead inside.

“No . . . I’m not saying no to _you_. Just to the married thing.” Sherlock flapped a hand. “Ask me again in six months.”

“No.” John shook his head slowly.

“No?” Sherlock looked worried.

“No, I’m not going to wait six months.” John glanced at his wrist, hitting a button to light up his watch. “It’s September 30th. I’m going to ask you every month on the 30th if you’ll marry me, until you say yes.”

“John.” Sherlock frowned, but his voice had gone fond.

“So, who’s this then?” A curly-haired woman who'd arrived with Lestrade sauntered over.

“Ah, Sgt. Donovan, this is my boyfriend, Dr. John Watson.”

“Boyfriend?” The woman looked surprised. “Really? You aren’t being coerced in any way are you?” She eyed John suspiciously.

“Actually, it’s not quite true that I’m his boyfriend.” John said. At the odd look on the woman’s face, he plowed on. “I’m actually his fiancé.” John put a hand proudly against the small of Sherlock’s back.

“I can’t be your fiancé if I haven’t said _yes,_ ” Sherlock complained.

“A mere technicality,” John insisted. “We both know you’re going to say yes eventually. Therefore . . .”

“John, this is completely unfair . . .”

“Stop, stop.” The woman held up her hands. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Excuse me, please.”

Sherlock watched her leave with a small smile of satisfaction. “John, thank you. That’s the first time Donovan’s backed down that quickly.”

“Oh, well, good. Does this mean you’ve said yes?”

“No,” Sherlock insisted stubbornly, “but you may keep asking.”

“Good.” John grinned, feeling somewhat giddy until the strain of recent events crept up on him. He swayed slightly. “Christ, I’m tired,” he sighed. "It's been quite a day." 

“I agree. Let’s go.” Sherlock made to lead John away from the hubbub outside the warehouse.

“Hey!” Lestrade called, breaking away from a knot of uniformed police officers to jog over. “Sherlock you know I need a statement before you go.”

“Tomorrow. We’ll both come in and fill out full reports, but right now I’m putting John to bed. He’s dead on his feet.”

John did his best to look woefully knackered.

“Yeah, okay. Tomorrow then,” Lestrade warned. “First thing.”

 

)0(

 

John dozed on Sherlock’s shoulder in the warmth of the taxi. They’d had to walk several blocks back to a main street to find one, and John had gratefully collapsed as soon as they'd climbed inside. He only roused when the car stopped outside Victor’s place. Sherlock handed a few notes to the driver, and helped John onto the kerb. The cold snap of the air helped him wake as Sherlock fished out his key.

“Why do you have a key to Victor’s flat?” John yawned hugely.

“Well, we knew I’d be coming and going at all hours,” Sherlock said, moving to unlock the door. “I didn’t want to disturb him when he was sleeping.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Speaking of which, we’d best be quiet.” Sherlock held the door open for John.

They tiptoed carefully up the stairs, making John feel like he was in sixth form again, and trying not to wake up his parents when he slunk in late.

The flat was dark, only a single light in the kitchen guiding them through the living area. They slipped off their shoes, and made their way down the hall, Sherlock leading the way by touch. John giggled as they shuffled along, nearly tripping over a rug.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock warned, shutting the guest room door behind them. John fumbled for the switch, but completely forgot about the light when he bumped against Sherlock instead.

“God, sweetheart.” John reached up, gripping his shirt to pull him close. “Come here.”

“John,” Sherlock sounded desperate, his lips and fingers fumbling in the dark.

All tiredness evaporated when Sherlock’s mouth found John’s and they kissed deeply, opened-mouthed, tongues twining together. Somehow they stumbled toward where the bed should be.

“Ow, damnit!” Sherlock growled, stubbing his toe on something.

“What . . .” John didn’t get a chance to finish his thought as Sherlock found the edge of the mattress, and tumbled John down with him.

Finally horizontal, fingers grasping, mouths seeking, legs slotting together, all the worry and want and terrible longing that had plagued John all week flooded over him, untethered. He groaned extravagantly when Sherlock buried his face against his neck and licked over his pulse point.

“Sherlock, God, please.” John felt as though he were shaking apart, and they hadn’t even taken their clothes off.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock muttered, doing his best at burrowing under John’s layers. John nearly shouted, arching off the bed when clever fingers snaked into his pants to close around his impossibly-hard erection.

Somehow they managed to wiggle and push at clothes until they were finally bare and rolling together, skin on skin.

“God, Sherlock, missed you, baby, please don’t, ever again . . .”

“No, John, no, never . . .” Sherlock peppered his face with kisses.

They babbled near nonsense as they rutted together, slick with sweat, and desperate longing. John was near insensate when orgasm rolled over him, the shaking pleasure all rolled up into the smell of dusty curls pressed against his face, and soft skin yielding under his clutching fingers. Sherlock gasped, a high, needy sound, and pumped his release over John’s skin as well. They lay together, entwined, unwilling to separate even to clean up.

“John, I love you,” Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing against John’s ear.

“Love you,” John mumbled, already slipping into the sweet release of slumber, Sherlock a warm weight, pressed so wonderfully against him.

 

)0(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, I'm not sure if any groups in Afghanistan actually do tribal scarring as a ritual practice. It's more of a custom seen in parts of Africa, but it fit the story, and I wanted to use it. Sooo, we'll just wave it away as being part of THIS particular universe, and let the fact checking fall by the wayside. Thanks for reading!!!


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, much confetti, and jars of sweet honey to my fabulous beta, ChrisCalledMeSweetie, for her wonderful, and so spiffy editing work. THANKS! Hope folks enjoy this last installment with our lads! :)

)0(

 

John woke to light filtering in through the blinds over Victor’s guest bed, and a delicious mop of dark curls on the pillow next to him. Sherlock was still out, his face looking so unguarded and sweet as he slept. John felt transfixed watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, repeating like a chanted mantra. A strip of light peeking its way in through the slats splashed across Sherlock, illuminating one pale pink nipple. John smiled before bending forward to lay a warm kiss to it. Sherlock smelled delightfully ripe, of sex and sweat, and warm sleep. John didn’t want to wake him, but he couldn't help licking over that delectable skin, laving over that one pebbled bud.

“Mmmm, good morning.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled to life, at least an octave lower than normal.

“Yes, it is good,” John agreed, snugging himself against Sherlock, pressing his face to his chest.

Sherlock threw an answering arm around John’s shoulders, pulling him just a bit tighter.

“God, Sherlock, this week’s been awful,” John huffed, letting Sherlock’s sleepy warmth seep into him. “I missed you.”

“I know. You’ve ruined me. I can’t work alone anymore,” Sherlock’s deep voice rolled out above. “I keep looking for you now, talking to empty air.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” John couldn’t bear not kissing Sherlock any longer, and climbed up to find his lips.

They fell into long, slow snogging, wrapped under the duvet, ignoring the world as warm lips and breath, and tongues wove magic, sliding together. John slotting his thigh between Sherlock’s, feeling the double pleasure of both of their cocks stirring slightly to life.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock purred like a lazy cat.

Sherlock’s face was delightfully stubbly and John left off kissing to nibble along his jaw. He scraped at the dusting of scruff with this teeth, nipping at the sensitive skin under his ear to brush his own bristles against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock groaned delightfully.

“You like that, hmm?” John crooned.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, eyes closed, head thrown back in abandon. “You know I do.”

John leaned back to study him, dark, mussed hair spread out like a halo, alabaster skin flushed pink where he had worried at it.

“God, you’re lovely,” he said, in some awe, still not quite sure being here with Sherlock was real.

Sherlock cracked his eyes open to regard John, sapphire slits nearly glowing in the morning light. He reached up to trace a finger down John’s throat, over his collar bones, stopping just shy of the scar over his shoulder.

“You are phenomenal. Truly a unique specimen.”

“Unique, hmmm?” John smiled in reply.

“Absolutely.” A smile, long and loopy, unfurled across his narrow face, softening all the angles.

John gasped in surprised when Sherlock leapt up suddenly, his long limbs a flurry of motion. He  flipped John neatly onto his back to scramble on top of him, his thighs bracketing John’s hips. John’s cock went from half-hard to full attention in a heartbeat.

“Who else . . .” Sherlock bent down to place his lovely full lips on John’s throat . . . “would bother . . .” he slid down John’s body as his lips caressed over his sternum, “putting up . . .” he ghosted just the tip of his tongue over John’s abdomen, “with me.” He dropped a warm kiss to the head of John’s hot cock where it lay flush over his belly.

“Oh, GOD,” John sucked in a breath. “I love you.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock stopped talking, and took John fully into his mouth.

John meant to say something in reply, but completely forgot what it was as Sherlock’s lips engulfed him in glorious wet heat. John gripped at the sheets so he wouldn’t pull at Sherlock’s hair, willing himself to lie still as Sherlock sucked him down leisurely until most of John’s erection had disappeared down his throat. Sherlock slid back just as slowly, his perfect lips dragging along John’s length.

 “JESUS CHRIST,” John swore, nearly shaking as pleasure rolled over his body.

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock rumbled a pleased sound in reply that John felt through his cock, straight down to his toes.

Sherlock set a sort of rhythm up, but one of glacial pace. He held John’s rigid cock steady as he moved his mouth over him in near slow motion, savoring each millimeter as he sank down, hollowing his cheeks for maximum pressure as he pulled back, slowly, so achingly slow. Occasionally he paused to lick up the underside of John’s penis, teasing at the frenulum with long, luxuriant swipes of his tongue.

“OH, oooooh.” John writhed, digging his heels into the mattress. He felt as though he were losing his mind, the sensations were almost too much, but not quite focused enough to get him off. “Please, please. . .”

Sherlock took pity on him then, stepping up the speed of his ministrations to find a consistent rhythm, bobbing his head faster while his clever hand worked up John’s shaft to meet his plump lips.

“God, God, GOD,” John cried as the wave finally swelled over him, spilling a hot release, as fireworks went off behind his eyelids.

“Come here. Baby, please.” John urged Sherlock into his arms when he could speak coherently again.

Sherlock crawled willingly up John’s body, his erection bumping between them. John kissed him deeply, enjoying tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue. His hands splayed over the strong muscles of Sherlock’s back, mapping every sinew and contour. John could practically feel the energy that coursed through this remarkable man. He was like holding lightning in physical form. God, he wanted to take him apart.

“Want you too,” John said as he pushed Sherlock on to his back, working his way down Sherlock’s belly, desperate to have that hot cock in his own mouth.

“Yes, Joooohn,” Sherlock crooned as John reached his lovely penis.

John slipped fingers over the length of him, curving his hand to hold him at the base. Sherlock’s cock was long and slender like his whole self, and tilted slightly to the left. John wouldn’t have minded a casting made of his lover’s erect member he mused dreamily. He could use it as a paper weight at work, or perhaps just keep it at home, have it done in plaster or maybe Lucite. God it would be a beautiful thing . . .

“John, please . . .” Sherlock moaned, snapping John back to the present moment.

“Oh, right . . .” John breathed, and bent to slide Sherlock’s cock in between his waiting lips.

Sherlock made a noise that was utterly obscene in response.

It was different of course giving a blow job to simply lying back and melting under one, but John was grateful for the chance to do this, honored that Sherlock lay spread, vulnerable and trusting, for him. It felt like a sacrament of some sort, worship of the holy cock, and John sucked with vigor, anchoring a hand on Sherlock’s hip to keep him steady as he bobbed with intent.

He soon lost himself in the feel of silky skin sliding over his lips and tongue, the musky scent in his nostrils, and soft bitten-off sounds of his lover under him.  John became nothing more than the hand holding and the mouth moving, and the blood pumping through his veins. It almost surprised him when Sherlock jolted, and a burst of hot and bitter fluid filled his mouth. He swallowed it happily, groaning himself as essence of Sherlock moved down his throat. Out of all the people this beautiful, intelligent man could have let do this for him, it was John, here in this bed, his mouth being used for Sherlock’s pleasure. John felt so overwhelmed it was almost as if he’d come again, even if his own cock still lay soft and spent between his legs.

Later, as they lay draped over each other, catching their breath, John noticed the enticing aroma of coffee wafting in under the door.

“Mmm, smells like breakfast,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s hair. “That might actually get me out of this bed.”

“I think Victor may want us to come out of his guest room eventually,” Sherlock said, sounding half asleep again.

“Or, we could just lie here together forever, and perhaps Victor will take pity on us and chuck food in the door occasionally.” John stretched his back, jostling a grumpy rumble out of Sherlock before settling back down. They might have drifted back to sleep if a knock hadn’t startled them.

“Gents? There’s breakfast if you’re up,” Victor called through the door.

“Yeah, thanks! Be there in a minute,” John answered.

“Would Victor mind if we came out naked?” John asked the riot of curls pressed under his chin, feeling too comfortable to move.

“I doubt it,” Sherlock said, “but I don’t intend to share you with him right now.”

John made a rude noise in response, but eventually flipped back the duvet, and urged them both to sitting.

They located clothes strewn across the floor, pulling on enough to be decent, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, found Victor setting platters of food to the glass and chrome table in the kitchen. The good smells wreathing the room had John almost whimpering as his neglected stomach grumbled to life.

“And my terrible guests are finally back with the land of the living.” Victor spared them a smile as he turned back to the stove. “How loud do you two NEED to be in bed, hmmm? I hope the neighbors don’t complain.”

Sherlock snorted rudely, but John cringed.

“Sorry, Victor,” John said. “You’ve been great to let us stay.”

“Aaah, you liven up the place.” Victor busied himself transferring fried potatoes onto a plate. “Coffee’s ready if you want some.”

“Ta.” John went to the coffee pot on the bench, pouring some into a nearby mug.

“Victor, you’ve outdone yourself.” Sherlock reached around him to grab a bit of potato off the plate, popping it into his mouth.

“It’s just this and that.” Victor turned to smack a quick pat to Sherlock’s arse.

The men froze an instant later, turning almost comically-wide eyes in John’s direction. It was obviously an old gesture that had happened without thought.

Any spike of jealousy John might have felt had been utterly shagged out of him after several hours with Sherlock in Victor’s guest bed. He waved them off with a chuckle. They sat down together around the glorious food that would have done any posh restaurant proud.

“God, Victor this is delicious,” John moaned around a bite of mushroom and peppers omelette.

Sherlock hummed his approval, stuffing his mouth full of sausage and grilled tomatoes.

“Thanks.” Victor looked pleased, watching them eat. “So, how did the case go? Did you finally solve it?”

After he swallowed, Sherlock launched proudly into the tale of John’s observations at the Yard, and the subsequent round up of the leaders of the drug smuggling ring. Victor listened avidly, asking questions and looking suitably impressed.

“So, how’s the new job going?” Sherlock asked Victor when he’d run down.

“Good, yeah, I think it’s going to be alright,” Victor said. “The position’s not as high up as my last place, but I think I can probably move up in a few months if all goes well.”

“You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand in a fortnight.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, we’ll see.” Victor shrugged, reaching for his cup.

“Just don’t shag your boss,” Sherlock said.

Victor snorted, nearly inhaling his coffee. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

After breakfast, John insisted that he and Sherlock do the washing up in thanks for Victor’s hospitality.

“What’s our plan today?” John asked, handing Sherlock a plate to dry.

“We need to get back to the Yard. Sadly, I promised we’d fill out a report today.” Sherlock sighed.

“Right, and then?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to head home.”

“Works for me.” John nodded.

 

)0(

 

The train ride home felt too long, but John was grateful beyond all measure to have Sherlock’s warmth pressed against his side. Sherlock stayed busy with his laptop while John half-heartedly read a new spy novel he’d picked up. Really, though, he stayed preoccupied with sneaking glances at Sherlock and his elegant, long wrists and fingers poised over the keyboard, still not completely sure he hadn’t dreamed the man up. Eventually Sherlock snapped his computer closed and slipped it aside.

“You want to talk.” He turned his focus on John.

“Yeah, no . . . well . . .” John reached up to scrub a hand back through his hair, struggling to place his words. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention the Autumn Ball earlier. Honestly, I don’t really want to go, but it’s a work thing . . . and yeah. Are you free? It’s Saturday night in two weeks.”

“I think I could spare the time.” Sherlock’s mouth softened.

“Ah, good.” John blew out a breath. “It’s black tie, and Sarah tells me they do ballroom dancing for an hour or so and then once the old people go home, a DJ comes out for the rest of the night.”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how I’ll manage the ballroom dancing part,” John said with a wry smile. “I’m good with club dancing, but . . .”

“I can teach you.”

“Yeah?” John raised his eyebrows, hardly surprised. Of course Sherlock knew how to dance. He seemed to know a bit about nearly everything.

“Some basic steps will be easy enough.”

“Oh, great, okay.” John frowned.

“Unless you’d rather not be seen at a professional setting dancing in the arms of a man . . .” A creased formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

“Hey, hold on, I never said that.” John laid a hand to Sherlock’s thigh, squeezing. “I’d be damned proud to be seen with you. I’m sorry, I’ve just . . . spent so much time hiding my time with men, it’s become a bit of a habit.”

“Not everyone is as advanced as we might like, though. Older people cling to prejudices.” Sherlock waved a hand around. “The senior doctor at your office . . .”

“Dr. Callum can take a long walk off a short pier if he has a problem with it, with us. Honestly, sweetheart, I’m done with hiding myself.” John leaned in to drop a kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

It felt stupidly good to kiss his boyfriend, and though he kept it light, John lingered a bit longer than he normally would in public. The smile that unfurled over Sherlock’s beautiful lips when he pulled away was radiant.

“Gorgeous man,” John murmured unable to stop himself from leaning in for just one more.

John noticed a school-aged boy watching them avidly from across the aisle when he pulled away. John smiled kindly at him, and the boy blushed, burying his face in the graphic novel in his hands.

“Oh, crap, I don’t know what I’m going to wear though,” John said

“I know a tailor in Brighton who owes me a favour. We’ll go see him tomorrow.”

“I suppose I could rent . . .”

“Nonsense. There’s just enough time to have something made.”

“God, how much will that cost . . .”

“As I said, he owes me a favour.”

“Oh, alright, fine, fine.” John smiled at the bewitching man beside him.

His hair had frizzed a bit after a quick shower at Victor’s with his less-than-poncy bath products. The slight imperfection in Sherlock’s usual posh and polished appearance made John love him all the more. He wanted to pull him in for another kiss, taste that beautiful mouth, but John wasn’t sure he could keep it from going into not-safe-for-company territory. He settled for scooping up Sherlock’s hand, threading their fingers together. Sherlock leaned in to press a kiss at John’s jaw.

“We’re being observed again,” Sherlock whispered into his ear.

“Hmmm?” John found himself a bit too distracted by the low baritone rumbling against his skull to parse the words spoken.

“The boy seated at three o’clock, twelve or thirteen, reading manga. He’s begun to question his sexuality, most likely bisexual with a stronger preference for males. Divorced parents, lives with a grandmother who votes Conservative,” Sherlock said quietly. “We seem to be stirring things up for him.”

“I bet he fancies you,” John whispered.

“Au contraire, my love. It’s you he’s staring at.” A smile curled it’s way across Sherlock’s beautiful mouth. “He’s afraid to come out. Let’s show him it’s all fine.”

“Yeah, okay . . .” John managed before Sherlock slipped a hand around the nape of his neck, pulling him into a hot, wet snog that nearly curled his toes.

“Ah . . .” John felt a bit blank, all his blood pooling south when Sherlock moved away to flip open his laptop.

“Read your book, John,” Sherlock murmured, powering up the screen.

“Oh, right.” John fumbled for the novel, blindly opening it to a random page for a few minutes before locating the spot where he’d left off.

Again, John soon found his attention wandering to the beautiful man hunched over his computer next to him. Sherlock looked engrossed with a website on common bee winterizing techniques, but he glanced back at John to wink at him. _Cheeky bugger_.

John giggled, and Sherlock snickered quietly along. Across the aisle the boy peeked over his book, quickly looking down when John glanced his way. John smiled and tried to lose himself in the antics of his book’s protagonist in war-torn France. Sherlock moved his leg a bit closer, and the warmth along John’s thigh was delicious.

 

)0(

 

John phone rang almost as soon as they’d walked in the door to Holmes Manor. John pulled out his phone to read “Mrs. H.” He swiped his thumb to answer, chuckling a bit at thinking Hudders must be psychic. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John in question.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” John said pointedly in answer.

“John, dear, how did things go?” A nervous note ran through her voice.

“Good, they went really well.” John waved Sherlock aside, turning his back to him for a moment of privacy. “Sherlock’s solved his case, and we’ve both just got home.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. I’m so glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, me too.” John could hear Sherlock slipping quietly down the hallway further into the house.

“So, you talked about some things?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think we did.”

 “Good, glad you’ve settled that silliness. Now, come over for dinner,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Oh, no, we couldn’t impose . . .”

“Nonsense, I know you’ve nothing in the fridge, and you’ve better things to do than run to the shops.”

“Yes, thank you. That does sound great.” John smiled at Mrs. Hudson’s unique blend of solicitude and bullying. “Let me just ask Sherlock and get back to you.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll expect you at six.”

Sherlock was at the table with his laptop, the kettle coming to a boil when John entered the kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson wants us over for dinner,” John announced, crossing the room to open the fridge. It was bare save for a jar of mustard, and a few sad looking vegetables in the bottom drawer. “She said we had nothing in. God, she was right.”

“Mrs. Hudson is rarely wrong,” Sherlock agreed.

John squatted down to inspect the veg in the crisper. “Yeah, that’s a loss.”

John gathered up the sad specimens as Sherlock moved to rummage in the cabinet by the sink.

“John, we’re almost out of tea.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” John opened the rubbish bin, and dumped the browning veg inside.

He straightened and was startled by a flurry of long limbs, and curls smashed against his cheek. John whoosed out a breath in surprise as Sherlock embraced him tightly from behind.

“John.”

“Er, yeah . . . love, what?”

“You didn’t do the shopping.”

“No, I didn’t . . . had a bit of a bad week actually.” He placed a hand over the arms encircling his chest like a vise.

“I’m sorry.” The words came muffled from behind.

“Yeah, I am too.” John patted what he could reach of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let’s never do that again.”

“No.” Sherlock pulled John around until they were facing. His large hands spread to cup John’s face tenderly between them. “We’ve only known each other three months.”

“That’s true,” John agreed.

“Fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce.” Mercurial blue eyes darted over John’s, searching.

“Yeah, and I guess half don’t.” John blew out a breath. “Look, Sherlock, we don’t have to get married, I just want to be with you, full stop. Okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned in to lay a kiss to John’s lips, something achingly tender. “I want that, too. To be with you.”

He leaned in for another soft and sweet slide of mouths, but John parted his lips, Sherlock’s tongue slipped inside, and the kiss turned molten as they pressed closer. John surged in until Sherlock was pushed back against the refrigerator and John was all but climbing him to get at his lips, one hand griping his shirt while the other twined into his curls.

“Please, want to . . . want you . . .” Sherlock growled against John’s lips.

“God, yes, want to fuck you,” John panted in reply.

Kissing, hands still on each other, they moved toward the steps. Somehow they made it upstairs to the big four-poster bed without tripping over each other, though it was a near thing.

John started on the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, his tongue between his teeth, until Sherlock batted his hands away to disrobe faster. John pulled his own things off, desperate to be against him, now, right now. Stripped bare, they came together, John stepping into Sherlock’s outstretched arms. He ran his hands almost reverently up and down Sherlock’s flank, feeling the light hair over warm, soft flesh, gripping a handful of that arse that never stopped enchanting him. John pressed his nose against the wall of chest before him, inhaled deeply, enveloped in all things Sherlock, as the man hugged him tightly. John moved, snuffling over to find a small puckered nipple, and he licked over it, once, twice. Sherlock groaned deeply. John grinned, pleased with himself.

“Bed,” Sherlock said simply before stepped away to drag the covers down, pulling John with him onto the mattress.

It was some kind of heaven to roll together in their bed, tucked under the duvet. Arms wrapped, and legs slotted together. Everywhere they connected felt so fucking good, John wanted to laugh with joy.

“Baby, Christ. I missed you.”

“Mmm. I hardly slept without you,” Sherlock admitted, nosing against John’s cheek.

John had resisted changing the sheets. Mostly because he couldn’t be arsed to do it, but also because he couldn’t bear to lose the last of Sherlock’s lingering scent. Having the man himself back in the bed was riches beyond measure. John sighed deeply.

Sherlock shifted, his erection brushing against John’s aching cock, and that was all it took for their cuddle to turn heated. John groaned, and moved his pelvis, seeking more friction as silky skin rubbed together, caught between their bellies.

“Wait, we need . . .” Sherlock pulled away briefly, and John mourned even the brief loss of him until he returned with a tube of lubricant from the bedside drawer.

Sherlock squirted out a line of gel, holding it for a moment to warm before slicking it over their cocks lying side by side. John still hissed at the edge of cold.

“I’ll warm it up,” Sherlock chuckled dark and low, moving his hand to make good on his promise.

John nearly growled. He closed his eyes, relaxing into the slide of Sherlock’s palm, the feeling of his beautiful cock moving alongside his own. He bit his lip as the sensations were almost instantly too much. He didn’t want to come right out of the starting gate, but just the thought of Sherlock here, warm and real, and sliding his clever fingers over John’s penis threatened to tip him over.

“Joooohn,” Sherlock crooned.

John looked up to find Sherlock’s electric blue eyes staring intently at him, a fall of black curls tumbling over his forehead. He was gone in an instant.

“CHRIST,” John cried between gritted teeth as his orgasm slammed through him.

When he could move his limbs again, he reached down to curl his hand over Sherlock’s still hard member, pulling over him, willing each pass of his fist to convey how honored he was to be here touching this man in this bed. Sherlock came soon with an impressive bellow of his own.

They collapsed together, warm and sticky. Sherlock pushed back the duvet as they panted into each other’s skin. Eventually, John moved to find a flannel from a stack they now kept in the bedroom, and they managed to clean up a bit before flopping back together, sated and soft. John even dozed for a few moments before he cracked an eye open to find Sherlock watching him with gentle eyes.

John reached out to trace the side of Sherlock’s face with a fingertip. “God, look at these cheekbones.”

Sherlock chuckled softly as John let his finger run down to caress over the very beginnings of stubble along his jaw.

 “I wanted to do that when I first saw you, touch those lovely cheekbones.” He let his finger trace down Sherlock’s nose, launching off the tip like a ski jump. Sherlock chuckled.

“Oh, you really are beautiful,” John breathed.

“John, stop.” A blush crept over Sherlock’s cheeks.

“What? It’s true. You are, simply gorgeous.”

“I’m too tall, too gangly.” Sherlock scrunched his nose. “I have an odd face . . .”

“Hey, stop that.”  John pushed up to an elbow, bringing his face closer to at Sherlock’s as he gripped his bicep. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever met! Seriously, when I first met you I thought, well, he’s out of my league. And then you asked me over. God, I couldn’t believe my good luck.”

“Oh, when I met you, I thought you were prefect,” Sherlock said, eyes shining. “Very fit.”

“What, me with my shoulder . . . and leg?” It was John’s turn to be incredulous.

“Smoking hot.” Sherlock shot him a molten look from under his eyelashes.

It stole the breath from John’s lungs.

“Oh, God . . .you.” He had to kiss Sherlock again, repeatedly, climbing over him to reach all of his face and down his neck, interspersing pecks with whispered endearments.

“Beautiful . . . gorgeous . . . lovely man . . .” John murmured the words into his skin. “You’re mine, all mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said breathlessly. “And you’re mine. We don’t need papers.”

“Still, a wedding would be nice. Wouldn’t it?” John pushed back up on an elbow. “We could have a chocolate layer cake, and . . .” John searched his mind for grand things people did at weddings, “ . . . and release doves.”

“Really, doves?” That adorable little crease had found it’s way back between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Right, no doves but . . .”

“Later,” Sherlock said. “Ask me again later.”

“Okay, fine,” John huffed, slipping sideways to lie beside Sherlock again, splaying a hand to cover his bare middle, enjoying the look of tanned skin against the pale white of Sherlock’s belly, honey on snow. “God, what time is it? Mrs. Hudson wanted us at six.”

Sherlock leaned up, craning his neck to see the clock.

“Best get up and get ready then.”

“Mmm, shower first, I think.” John leaned in to take a whiff of Sherlock, nearly burying himself in the sweet thatch of dark hair under his arm. “You smell quite ripe.”

“No worse than you.”

“Yeah, but you’re so posh and perfect, I like messing you up.”  John grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock’s sternum as his hand slipped down to pat at his side.

Sherlock made a pleased sound.

John followed it up with a lick that turned into him mouthing again at one of Sherlock’s nipples. They were so sensitive, he loved watching Sherlock squirm under his touches.

“Mmmm, John, dinner?”  Sherlock’s voice came out even deeper than normal, gravel and smoke.

“God, sod dinner.” John stepped up the wicked work of his lips and tongue, moving over to latch onto Sherlock’s second nipple. Sherlock arched his back and groaned wonderfully.

The sun had dropped, leaving the room in deep shadow, when they finally surfaced again.

“Oh Christ, Hudders will kill us.” John pushed up to sitting.

“We can skip the shower and just wipe clean and be there in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock suggested pragmatically, looking deliciously shagged out, dark, tangled hair strewn across the white pillow like some Renaissance painting.

With great effort, John pushed the duvet off, and they got out to clean up as quickly as they could.

Mrs. Hudson’s house was the second down the road from Holmes Manor, a smaller but no less-imposing grand old home with ivy on the grey, stone walls. She met them at the door, tutting about their lateness, but smiled when she got a good look at them.

“Oh, good. You’ve made up then. Fighting is awful isn’t it, but the make-up sex is almost worth it.”

“Mrs. Hudson, please!” Sherlock chided her as John blushed hotly.

She merely laughed and showed them into the kitchen.

“Bedhead,” John whispered, as they walked down the hallway. He reached up, trying to flatten the back of Sherlock’s hair, but the curls wouldn’t be tamed. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

“John, don’t. I’ll simply wash it later.”

John squeezed the back of his neck and left his riot of curls alone. He hated to admit it, but it gave him a bit of a boost to know he’d made Sherlock’s hair look that wild.

Mrs. Hudson poured the wine liberally, and after a hearty meal of roasted potatoes and beef with carrots, everyone was in a good mood.

“Mycroft called this afternoon,” Mrs. Hudson told them after winding up a good gossip about two neighbors having a row about who was responsible for a large rotten tree about to fall on a property line.

“What did his largeness want this time?” Sherlock made a grimace over the rim of his wine glass.

“He wanted to know if I’d heard from you  . . . which I had not.”

“I was busy on a case,” Sherlock bristled. “Besides, he has no right to check up on me. I am an adult. I’m perfectly capable . . .”

“Oh Sherlock, he’s your big brother. He just worries.”  Mrs. Hudson reached over to swat at his arm.

“I’m sorry, we rang him for Victor’s address.” John looked sheepish.

“Oh.” Sherlock set his glass down. “Yes, of course. I should have given you the address straightaway." It was Sherlock’s turn to look chagrined. "John, I’m sorry.”

“Well, no matter. It’s all come out right in the end. True love will out.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, raising her wine in tribute.

“I don’t deserve John.” Sherlock looked sad.

“Well, what rot, of course you deserve me.” John reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I don’t know if I deserve you.”

“Oh, silly boys, you’re both good for each other.” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Sherlock, you needed someone, rattling around in that big house all alone. And you, John. You’ve just blossomed being here. You’re a good fit. Not like me and my husband, Frank. No, that was just a physical thing.” Mrs. Hudson drained the last of her wineglass.

John looked at his nearly empty glass, and worried that they were all growing mawkish from the wine.

“Well, I have work in the morning. We’d best be going. Thanks so much for dinner, Mrs. H, this was lovely.”

“Of course, John. Let me get you some leftovers to take home. I’ll never eat all this alone.”

Later, in bed, after he’d showered, and changed into sleepwear, John listened to Sherlock finishing up in the bathroom. He marveled at the simple joy of it. Just the sound of someone else moving in the next room, knowing Sherlock was about to come back and climb into bed with him and sleep the whole night next to him . . . it was nearly overwhelming.

His heart gave a little flip when Sherlock padded in wearing nothing but some baggy white pants. They were a terribly old pair, the elastic in the waistband almost gone, barely clinging to the sharp bones of his hips. The rest of him was long and so refined in comparison, greyhound limbs, and sculpted lines.

Something strange must have shown on his face when Sherlock looked up.

“What, what is it?”

It swelled over John, what he might have lost if he hadn’t been shot and come home from Afghanistan, if he hadn’t gone to that farmers’ market with Clara and Harry and seen a certain honey stand.

“Nothing.” John smiled. “Come to bed.”

“God, yes, I’m knackered.” Sherlock pulled an equally old tee shirt out of drawer, and climbed into bed.

Sherlock leaned over for a sweet goodnight kiss. John might have been hoping for more, but after the peck, Sherlock collapsed onto his pillow and pulled the duvet up to his chin.

“Turn the light out, will you?” A petulant voice rolled out from the mound of fabric.

“Yes, your highness,” John chuckled.

Sherlock had such odd sleep habits, but when he slept, he slept hard. By the time John had moved to click the lamp off and settled back down, Sherlock had already drifted off and turned to wrap most of the blankets over himself.

“Love you, you git,” John whispered, pulling a corner of the duvet back for himself.

 

)0(

 

“Ow, watch your step! To the left, next!”

“Damn, sorry.” John winced as he’d trod on Sherlock’s toes for the second time.

“You need to go with the flow. Follow the rhythm of the music.” Sherlock dropped his arms from around John in a huff.

“I AM following the music,” John protested, raking a hand back through his fringe.

“Relax. You’re thinking too much, then. Just follow me. Feel where my body goes, and I’ll lead you.”

“Alright fine, let’s try again.”

Sherlock nodded and took John back into position, one hand at John’s waist and the other holding his hand between them, regulation shoulder height. Sherlock stood so tall and precise, his face so set in concentration, John felt like he was back in primary school being taught by an especially firm teacher. It sent a bit of a shiver up his spine.

“Focus,” Sherlock admonished, and John risked a last smile as he tried to relax, letting the minute shifts of Sherlock’s muscles guide his movement as they started again.

They’d shoved some furniture aside, and set Sherlock’s ipod in its doc in the front parlor to make a space for their dance class. As Sherlock explained, the room had been designed to double as a dance floor as needed for parties held at the old manor. They’d hardly spent any time in this part of the house since John had moved in, but with all the curtains pulled back, and the rich afternoon light spilling in through the windows, it wasn’t as intimidating as it had been.

They continued making circuits to the orchestral pieces wafting out of the small speakers, until John could manage a basic waltz without damaging Sherlock’s toes.

“Excellent, John, you’ve made good progress.”

“Thanks.” John flushed.

Sherlock continued to look so formal, John couldn’t resist rocking up on the balls of his feet to land a smack to his lips.

“Mmm. Maybe I could teach you my favorite dance, next?” John asked, dropping his voice a bit.

“And what would that be?” The edges of Sherlock’s blue eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“Oh, a little something like this.”

John moved in closer to slot a thigh between Sherlock’s legs. He slid both hands to Sherlock’s arse, urging him to widen his stance, pulling him in until their torsos were flush. With a swivel of his pelvis, John rocked in, sending their hips into a gentle circle, setting up a rhythm that Sherlock quickly fell into.

“Ah, I see, yes, well . . .” Sherlock swallowed.

“Do you?” John challenged, changed the movement to a tighter circuit, pressing in a bit more until they were simply grinding together, all pretense at not sliding their thickening cocks encased in a few layers of fabric against each other abandoned.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock dropped his head back

“Mmmmm,” John purred, moving in to mouth at the base of Sherlock’s delicious throat. Sherlock made a sound that was almost indecent.

Christ, he might be able to get off just doing this John thought, squeezing a bit harder at Sherlock’s luxuriant arse, changing the angle to just there _, oh, God, oh God_ . . .

“Uhum.”

John froze as a throat clearing across the room yanked him from his lust-soaked haze.

“Well, I’ve not seen Tchaikovsky used this way before. Quite inventive really.”

Both of their heads swiveled to find Mycroft Holmes regarding them mildly from the doorway, leaning on his expensive-looking umbrella. John instantly dropped his hands from Sherlock’s backside, feeling irrationally guilty.

“Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock growled.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I thought it best to announce my presence.”

John untangled himself from Sherlock, but stayed close by his side.

“Yes, so you’ve intruded.” Sherlock looked a bit mournfully down at John. “As I said before, what are doing _here_? In Sussex?” He flicked angry eyes back to his brother.

“I had some business in the area, and it was late enough in the day, that it seemed prudent to simply spend the night.” Mycroft looked down as if to inspect the hand wrapped around his umbrella handle. “I trust my usual room is available?”

“What business?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. National security and all that. So my room  . . .” Mycroft arched a perfectly-sculpted brow.

“Yes, yes, the pink room is fine.”

“It’s the _East Asian_ room,” Mycroft bristled. “It isn’t the pink room.”

“The walls are pink,” Sherlock insisted.

“The trim is pink,” Mycroft fired back, bending to retrieve a leather valise John hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Where’s your driver?” Sherlock stepped forward.

“I’m on my own,” Mycroft said, hefting the bag to better balance it as he made his way to the staircase.

“How long are you staying?” Sherlock trailed after him, John following closely behind.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’ll be out in the morning.” Mycroft’s voice filtered down the stairs.

“Bastard,” Sherlock gritted between his teeth quietly when he had gone. “He’s here to spy on me.”

“Oh, Sherlock, the whole world doesn’t revolve around you.” John patted his side. “It’s quite possible he really does have some business in the area.”

“Yes, harassing me,” Sherlock humphed. “John, you can’t let him influence you.” Sherlock spun on John without warning, encasing his face between his large palms to lean in too close, searching John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, what . . .”

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t listen to him. Don’t let him sway how you feel about me.” Sherlock sounded nearly panicked.

“Hey, hey, love, hold on.” John pulled Sherlock’s hands down from his jaw, cradling them in his own. “I’m all in here. There’s nothing your brother is going to say to scare me off.”

“Yes, well . . .” Sherlock looked so young all of a sudden, so uncertain.

“It’s fine.” John pulled him into a hug. “Look, did you want to make that pasta for dinner?”

“Rather go out, now,” Sherlock huffed into the top of John’s shoulder.

“Yeah, okay. Just let me get a shower first.”

Sherlock had intercepted John as soon as he’d gotten home from work, insisting on the dance lesson.

“Alright. Do you want to do the Thai place?”  Sherlock stepped back, rubbing a hand down his other arm. Self soothing.

“Yeah, that sounds brilliant.” John leaned in for a last squeeze to Sherlock’s hip. “Listen, don’t let your brother rattle you. Honestly, Harry yanks my chain all the time. You simply have to ignore them.”

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded tightly.

John stopped by the bedroom on his way to the loo to fetch his dressing gown. He passed the closed door to the “East Asian” room which really did feature a good deal of pink in its décor. He could hear Mycroft moving around inside, drawers sliding open and closed. _Who bothered to unpack for one night?_ John shrugged and continued on to the shower.

When John was done, he returned to the bedroom to dress, noting the pink room was vacated again, the door open and the light out. As soon as he’d dried off, dressed, and tamed his hair with a few swipes of a brush, John hurried back down to defuse whatever new situation might have arisen downstairs. It was almost anticlimactic to find Sherlock in the small sitting room, and Mycroft nowhere to be seen.

“So, where’s his lordship swanned off to?” John asked his boyfriend, draped sulkily over the sofa with his computer in his lap.

“In the study,” Sherlock said simply, the side of his lips tugging up at John’s jest.

“Should we ask if he wants to come with us?” John asked.

“Oh God, no. It would put my appetite right off.” Sherlock shuddered delicately.

“At least let me ask if he wants something brought back.”

“Fine.” Sherlock blew out a breath. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Okay. Won’t be a minute.”

John moved to knock at the heavy wooden door of the study as Sherlock skittered off in the other direction. The study wasn’t a room that either of them frequented, and the door often remained shut. Today, thought, it seemed closed with purpose.

“Come,” Mycroft’s voice reached him muffled from within.

John turned the knob, and stepped in to find Mycroft ensconced behind the large oak desk with a laptop and several folders of papers heaped around him. The man had removed his jacket and loosened his tie slightly, but otherwise he looked like he was still back at an office in the city. He flipped the open top folder closed before glancing up, looking for all the world like the lord of the manor John had jokingly called him.

“John, what can I do for you?” Something meant to approximate a smile found its way across Mycroft’s face.

“Yeah, erm, we’re just off to dinner.” John jerked a thumb toward the door. “Wondered if you wanted something brought back? We’re getting Thai.”

“Ah, how kind of you.” Mycroft leaned in, a more human expression sliding in to chase the other away. “You needn’t trouble yourself though. I’ve already brought something in myself. I never trust Sherlock to keep the larder stocked.”

“Alright, then.” John nodded. “We’ll, erm, we’ll see you later.”

“Of course.” Another smug little smile appeared before Mycroft turned back to his computer, John obviously dismissed.

John pulled the door closed as he left, trying to shake the feeling that he’d just been called in to see the headmaster. Sherlock had the Aston Martin idling in the drive when he emerged outside. He drove a bit faster than usual to the restaurant, and John refrained from saying anything trying not to rattle Sherlock more than he already was.

The Thai restaurant, Seeracha, had become a favorite of theirs, and they quickly relaxed over hot tea, and bowls of spicy coconut milk soup. It had good food at a nice price, and a downscale atmosphere that John enjoyed. They talked of nothing important until their main course arrived. John had ordered a red curry, and Sherlock a green one, and they tucked into their meals with relish. Finally, after hunger had been addressed, Sherlock spoke.

“John, I’m sorry about Mycroft being at the house. I know it’s your home now too, and it isn’t fair to you having him just  . . . pop in.”

“Hey, he’s your brother. I stayed with Harry and Clara for months.” John shrugged. “It’s what you do for family. Besides, the place is big enough to fit us all.”

“Yes, but Mycroft is _my_ brother, you shouldn’t have to deal with him.”

“But you’re my family now, so he is too.”

“Oh.” Sherlock had a funny look on his face. “Is this some sort of family transitive law?”

“Yeah, I guess it is. You going to finish that?” John motioned to Sherlock’s plate.

When Sherlock’s shook his head, John reached over to spear up a bit of lamb. It was so hot, John chased it down with half a glass of water.

“Ooh, love, that’s wicked.”

“I like it spicy.” Sherlock shrugged.

They still had left-overs to take home, and after boxing them up and settling the bill, Sherlock tossed John the keys by way of asking if he wanted to drive. John smiled, always up for driving the sports car. He did take the curves at a safer speed than Sherlock had earlier, which was good, as night had fallen properly.

Sherlock slunk off to the sitting room when they got home, while John went to put the food in the fridge. Mycroft seemed to have already retired to his bedroom. John saw some new take-away cartons in the rubbish bin though, so he assumed Mycroft had already dined.

Sherlock was back busy on his laptop when John returned to the living room. He looked up briefly as John settled on the sofa, clicking on the telly to cycle through the stations before he found something he liked.

“John, what rubbish is this?” Sherlock raised his head some time later at John’s chuckling.

“This is NOT rubbish,” John huffed. “I’ll have you know the Great British Bake Off is a national treasure.”

“A cooking show?”  Sherlock scrunched his nose.

“Not cooking, baking.”

“John, neither of us bake, I fail to see the appeal . . .”

“Oooh, look at that, they’ve only got twenty minutes left on the challenge and that bloke’s sponge just split in two.”

Despite himself, Sherlock began following the programme, closing his laptop to join John on the sofa.

Sherlock was simply entranced by the spun sugar decorations one woman used on top of her confection. Later when a man’s Baked Alaska melted all over the plate when decanted, they both cried out in horror.

“Well, that was blatantly unfair.” Sherlock gestured to the screen. “That woman took his ice cream out of the freezer and left it to thaw on the bench!”

“Yeah, I think it was an accident, but rotten luck.” John nodded.

By the time the show ended with someone being voted off the competition, Sherlock was yelling insults at the recording. “Why did they get rid of the Yorkshire man? The woman from Bath was clearly the inferior baker. The judges are idiots.”

“I dunno, at least she didn’t have half of her bake fall apart at the end.”

“Still, one accident doesn’t mean the man was bad at baking, if the judges had any sense . . .”

“Aw, love, life’s not always fair, is it?” John chuckled, leaning in to pat Sherlock’s leg. “That’s it for me, though, I’m off to bed. Coming?”

“In a moment, there’s something I wanted to finish researching before turning in.”

“Alright, don’t stay up too late.” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he flipped his laptop open again.

John got ready for bed, changing into a pair of pyjama bottoms and an old tee shirt, oddly shy about sleeping in just his pants with Mycroft somewhere in the house. John had turned off the light and was nearly drifting off when the mattress shifted, Sherlock joining him under the covers.

“Mm, ni’ luv,” John mumbled.

“Good night, beautiful man,” Sherlock whispered, insinuating himself around John, pushing a knee between John’s legs, and winding an arm around his middle.

On a warm night it might have been too much, but the extra heat just felt nice and John aimed a pat at Sherlock’s arm before slipping all the way into slumber.

It was dark when John woke with a sour stomach, and Sherlock snoring quietly on the other side of the bed. Deciding the curry must not have agreed with him, John slipped out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen for an antacid.

The light was on over the hob as they usually left it, but so was the strip of lights over the sink, as none other than Mycroft Holmes leaned against the worktop reading a tablet as he waited for the kettle to boil. He wore a pair of navy, plaid pyjamas that looked as prim and proper as the suit he’d had on earlier, but the over-all effect was completely ruined by the pair of thick, fuzzy red socks with white polka dots on his feet.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft looked up, surprised at finding John. “This is a bit late for you.”

“Indigestion,” John said, yawning, as he sifted through the cabinet where they kept a simple cache of over-the-counter things. “Woke me up.”

“Yes, Thai can have that effect.” Mycroft turned as the kettle clicked off. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining me in a cup of chamomile?” He lifted the box of herbal tea he had on the worktop. “It has a calming effect on a number of systems.”

“Sure, as long as you don’t put anything dodgy in it.” John finally located the box of alka-seltzer. He pulled out a packet to drop the tablets into a glass he filled at the sink, moving to the table to watch it fizz.

“I promise. Nothing but chamomile and a bit of mint.” Mycroft brought two mugs filled with the herbal tea over, setting one before John.

“Ta!” John glanced up. After quickly downing the fizzy liquid, he pulled the tea closer.

Mycroft opened a jar of honey, spooning a generous helping into his mug before settling down across from John with it. They sipped tea together in companionable silence for several minutes, content to listen to the sound of a clock chiming somewhere in the house.

“Sherlock thinks you’re here to spy on him,” John offered mildly.

“Oh?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s an added bonus to whatever else you have to do.” John took a swallow of his cooling tea.

Mycroft set his mug down, raising his hands in a steepled position over the table. He fixed John with such a familiar, piercing look that John almost chuckled.

“Doctor Watson, I’ve offered you some very lucrative, prestigious positions over the last few weeks.”

“Yup, you have,” John agreed.

“Many would have been honoured to have received such offers.”

“That’s true.”

“Or offended.”

“Also true.” 

“You seem to have taken neither position.”

“Yeah, well, I’m good with where I am, thanks,” John said. “No reason to get upset about it.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, and then sat back, seeming to change his mind about what he wanted to say next. He took a sip of his tea before continuing.

“When Sherlock was nineteen, he was reading chemistry at Cambridge. He had one of the most brilliant minds they’d ever seen. All his professors said so. He graduated early, top of his class." Mycroft paused, cutting his eyes toward John who nodded for him to continue. "At twenty-one, he was jobless, in London hanging out with low-life scum, busy getting high every other day. When we cut off access to his accounts, he found alternative methods of procuring funding.”

“Look, you don’t have to go over this.” John sat up, angrily. “I’d really rather if Sherlock . . .”

“We found him half-beaten to death behind a skip where his _date_ had left him, over-dosing on a chemical cocktail that would have felled a horse.”

“Oh, God.” John ran a hand over his face. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft hissed the words through clenched teeth. “I’ll be damned if I find my brother in another back alley like that again.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. Do you think I’m going to encourage Sherlock to _do_ that?”

“No, but I think that after you leave, there’s no telling what my brother might be pushed to do.”

“Right, I’m only saying this once. I have no plans to leave. Not unless Sherlock asks me to go.” John lifted his cup to drain the last of it. “Even then, I’d probably get on my knees to ask him to reconsider.”

“I see.” Mycroft had a look on his face as if he’d bitten into something sour.

“Yeah, well, I’m off to bed.” John stifled a yawn as he rose. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Mycroft nodded, slipping into his well-bred manners by rote. He took an almost dainty sip of his tea.

“Also, I love the socks.” John paused at the door.

“My feet get cold at night,” Mycroft said a bit defensively, wiggling his toes as he peered over his cup at them.

“No, really, they suit you.” John smiled. “Well, good night, Mycroft. Good to see you again.”

“Good night, John.” Mycroft frowned slightly as he watched John leave.

 

)0(

Amazingly enough, Mycroft had disappeared from the house like mist in the sun by the time John stumbled awake the next morning. Sherlock was already in the kitchen boiling up some experiment, and told him Mycroft had been picked up by a car in the wee hours. Obviously, Holmeses didn’t seem to need sleep like mere mortals. John would have liked to discuss some things with Sherlock, but he was running late and settled for a quick hug from behind, his arms winding around Sherlock’s apron.

“Love you,” John kissed along his back.

“Love you, too.” Sherlock patted at him, giving the goo on the hob a stir.

John got into the surgery just in time to see his least favorite patient. He counseled Mr. Stanwell as best as he could, steering him away from his disease of the week, and suggested again that laying off the cream teas, and taking up a light exercise routine might not go amiss. It was a relief when the visit was over.

“John, do you have any plans for Saturday?” Sarah hung around the doorway to John’s office.

“Having a lie in? A ridiculously large fry up for breakfast?” John squinted up at her from the papers spread over his desk, happy for the interruption. John tried to be a compassionate physician, but honestly, who CARED how many times Mr. Stanwell had imagined he had leprosy this month?

 “You’re going to get fat if that’s all you’ve got planned.” Sarah laughed

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something athletic to do at some point.” John kept his face completely bland.

“Come dancing.”

“What? Ballroom dancing?”

“God no, _dancing_ dancing. I’m going out with some friends. You and Sherlock must come. It’s a brilliant club with both gay and straight couples. You simply must join us.”

“You know, I’ve been threatening Sherlock with a trip to a club.” John pushed back from his desk to better face her. “He’s been teaching me to waltz for that naff Autumn Ball thingie. I’ve been dying to dance to something from _this_ century.”

“Great! I’m bringing a bloke I’ve been seeing? Phillip. I don’t want him to be the only man in the group. He’ll feel funny.”

“Sooo, he’d be all right with us, though?” John frowned.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sarah smiled.

“Alright, let me ask Sherlock, and I’ll let you know.”

 

)0(

 

Sherlock, as it turned out, was fine with going dancing with John on Saturday night. John had worried a bit about what to wear, but Sherlock had appointed himself John’s official dresser. He tore through John’s meager wardrobe to deposit a pair of jeans that actually did nice things for John’s arse, and a dark blue button up shirt Sherlock had bought recently, over the bed.

“I dunno, shouldn’t we wear eyeliner or something? It’s been so long since I actually went to a club.” John stood with his hands on his hips.

“John, I don’t think this is really THAT kind of club. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock, of course, whirled off to finish his own toilette in the bathroom, doing something complicated with his hair. When they met up in the kitchen, John’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. Sherlock glided in wearing a pair of dark bespoke trousers that flowed over his lean form like water, and a tight purple shirt that looked near ready to burst.

“Oh, love, you are a caution.”

“What— is it too much?” Sherlock glanced down, a wrinkle creasing his brows.

“God, no, it’s perfect.” John moved closer to slide his hands around Sherlock’s waist. “I just don’t want to go out now.”

“Well, we could stay home.” Sherlock dropped his voice until it skimmed through gravel, his lips just brushing John’s ear. “I like that color blue on you.” A large hand slipped down behind John to cup his arse, tugging him a bit nearer.

“No, stop that, you. I promised Sarah we’d be there tonight!” John complained, making no move to push away.

Sherlock’s right buttock chose that moment to vibrate and hum in an alarming manner.

“Oh, ugh.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Going to answer your phone, love?” John asked, amused.

“I’m sure it’s Victor again.”

“Oh, what’s up with Victor?”

“He’s been texting me the formulas for a number of new drugs his company is considering and asking my opinion on them.” Sherlock reached back to extract his phone from his back pocket.

“On a Saturday night?” John asked.

“I think he’s lonely.” Sherlock thumbed the mobile to life, flipping through to the right screen.

“Maybe we should have him over again.”

“Maybe so.” Sherlock quickly typed a reply, and slipped his phone away. “Enough about Victor though. Someone promised me a night out.”

“You’re right. Let’s hit the road before you distract me again.”

Sherlock smirked, but allowed John to lead the way to the door.

 

)0(

 

Sherlock was right, the club wasn’t anything too edgy. It turned out to be a brick building sandwiched between a Chinese place and a bank, featuring some twirling lights on the ceiling, and a long bar set along one wall. A selection of fruity drinks and beers had tempted a range of smartly-dressed people to mill about, yelling to be heard over last year’s pop hits pounding out of the large speakers set in the corners.

John glanced about, one hand on Sherlock’s back, looking for Sarah and her friends, when Sherlock nudged him, pointing. Sarah was at a small table with two other women, a collection of bar napkins crumpled at her elbow as she sobbed into one in her fist. _Oh dear._ John steered them closer. Sarah pulled herself together for introductions as John and Sherlock found nearby chairs to join them.

“Sarah, luv, what’s wrong?” John leaned in to hear the answer.

“Oh God. It’s so stupid. I really shouldn’t be like this, but Phillip, the bastard, just dumped me.” Sarah motioned toward her phone. “Said we needed space to pursue other opportunities.”

“Oh, he didn’t. The wanker.” John raised both eyebrows.

“Didn’t even call, just sent a text,” one of Sarah’s friends offered.

“Broke up via text? Well, that is low,” Sherlock commented.

“I know. I thought it was all going really well too. Stupid me.” Sarah looked ready to dissolve into another round of tears when John slapped a hand on the table.

“Well, Phillip-the-wanker isn’t here, but we are. Let’s have fun to spite him. What are you drinking, Sarah?”

Gradually Sarah cheered as a few cosmopolitans made their way down her throat. They took to the dance floor as a group, enjoying the high energy of the music. Sarah’s friends peeled off as they found blokes to dance with, and John continued dancing between Sarah and Sherlock, hamming it up. John realized he’d always tried to play it so cool on the dance floor before when he was younger. Having no fucks to give was infinitely preferable as he shimmied, and flailed, throwing in funny moves to make Sarah laugh. They pretended to swim, direct traffic, smell their armpits, and fly like superheroes.

Sherlock bore it all with goodwill, dancing a more refined version of their antics. God, even just moving in time with the music, he flowed like smoke in the air. John had to tear his eyes away from him to keep Sarah in mind. Due to John’s earlier request, he’d dropped the flaming persona, but had kept a lid on his wandering tongue, settling on a “best face forward” version of himself, buying Sarah chips and listening sympathetically to her between dances.

 “The fucking shame of it all is Phillip was my date for the Autumn Ball. I won’t have time to find someone new now,” Sarah complained during a break, her chin propped morosely over a fist.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. John leaned in to whisper at Sherlock’s ear.

“What do you think about Victor? Should we set them up?”

“Why not? She looks about Victor’s type. Breathing.”

John chuckled as Sherlock whipped out his phone, thumbing through his photos before finding what he was looking for.

“Sarah, I’ve got a friend you might be interested in. We can ask if you’d like?”  Sherlock held up the mobile. “He might be free that weekend.”

She took the phone, a hopeful look in her eyes. “Yeah, sure, why not? He’s a good guy?”

“The best,” Sherlock purred. “I really think you two might get on.”

Sherlock sent her Victor’s contact information, and fired him a text before slipping his phone away. Sarah begged off then, saying she needed to go home, eat some ice cream and get to bed. John and Sherlock said good-byes, kissing Sarah on the cheek, but decided to stay for a few more songs before leaving. John wanted a few moments alone with his gorgeous man.

“Well, now, fancy a dance, hot stuff?” John leered at his partner.

“Don’t mind if I do, stud muffin.” Sherlock rose to accompany him as they returned to the dance floor.

A number of women were dancing together, but they were the only same-sex, male couple out on the floor. Still, no one paid them any attention as they jumped into the beat. John enjoyed matching his moves to Sherlock’s swiveling hips and shoulders, the two of them swaying back and forth in tandem. The lighting shifted and an explosion of tiny white lights swirled over them, sliding off of Sherlock’s cheekbones, and lean form. John wanted to eat him alive, but settled for grasping him about the hips, sliding a thumb into his belt loop.

A group of well-groomed men joined the crowd, looking hardly old enough to be in the club. One of them was simply gorgeous, and he knew it. Wearing artfully ripped jeans, and a shirt tight enough to be a second skin, he oozed across the dance floor, gathering appreciative looks from men and women alike. Sherlock hooked a finger under John’s chin to bring his eyes back on him, his lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, sorry, love,” John shouted over the music, rocking up on his toes to drop a kiss to said lovely lip.

Sherlock looked mollified as John grinned up at him, focusing on dancing closer. They stayed through another song, but when the music shifted to something with rap, John nodded toward the exit, eyebrows raised. Sherlock agreed, and they moved to collect their coats and go.

“I used to look like that, back in the day.” Sherlock said as they shrugged their coats on. “I was quite a thing.”

“Oh, love, you’re still quite a thing, believe me. That little twink has nothing on you.” John patted his rear surreptitiously.

They walked quickly in the frosty air to where John had left his Vauxhall parked. They’d agreed it wasn’t always good to draw attention with the posh sports car on outings such as these.

“I wish I’d met you in a club like that,” Sherlock said wistfully. “Earlier. It might have changed some things.”

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d met you earlier, too.” He reached out to take his love’s hand. It was warm, and he threaded their fingers together.

“We still could.”

“Hmmm?” John pulled out his keys to click the car locks open.

The car beeped in reply, and they parted, opening doors to slip inside.

“We could meet up in a club. A _real_ one. You’d be the handsome stranger, and I’d be the silly clubber who couldn’t keep his eyes off you.” Sherlock’s eyes looked silver in the scant light slanting in the window from a streetlight.

“Oh no, YOU’D be the one I couldn’t keep my eyes off of. You are amazing on the dance floor. You could have been a professional dancer, love.” John licked his lips.

Sherlock snorted a reply as John turned the engine on.

“It could be fun some time, though.” Sherlock scooted closer, dropping a hand to John’s thigh. “You could pretend not to know me, pick me up, fuck me in the loo.”

“Oh, God, yes.” John’s cock leapt to life almost painfully under his zipper. “Yes, let’s.” He leaned in for a quick kiss that deepened to something longer as Sherlock’s tongue insinuated itself artfully into John’s mouth.

“Christ, stop that, I have to drive home,” John laughed breathlessly.

“Drive fast.” Sherlock squeezed his thigh again before moving back.

 

)0(

 

They made time over the week for several more formal dance lessons. John held Sherlock carefully in his arms as he moved him backward across the parlor floor. They’d found that lessons went better with John leading rather than following once John had the basic form down. John grinned when he managed a successful dip, holding Sherlock suspended above the patterned rug on the floor in his strong arms. Sherlock’s deep chuckles wove through John’s higher pitched giggles.

“Didn’t drop me that time,” Sherlock said, smiling.

“I’m getting better.” John helped him to his feet. It was a good deal more elegant than the first time he’d tried the move, and they’d both overbalanced and ended up on the floor.

“Ah, I think that’s enough for today,” Sherlock said, moving to turn the music off.

John grabbed a water bottle off a side table, glancing fondly about the room. The last rays of evening sunlight shone in through the window, painting the floor and furniture a lovely golden color as the sun set. Even Sherlock’s dark curls looked tipped a reddish hue. He fiddled with the ipod on the mantle, cutting the next waltz off mid-note.

“I used to be so intimidated by this house,” John said.

“I’m sorry about that. I was worried I might chase you off with it.” Sherlock crossed back to join him. “This house was always my refuge, though. I could never think of it as anything but home.”

Sherlock held his hand out for the water bottle, and John passed it over.

“No, it’s lovely,” John agreed. “It’s just  . . .”

“What?” Sherlock held the bottle to his lips.

“It’s silly.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and took a swallow of water, waiting.

 “Oh, fine. When I was a kid, my favorite book . . . the one with the boy who went to stay with the witch with the magic garden behind her house  . . .” John trailed off.

“Yes?” Sherlock fixed John with a look as if he were trying to x-ray the inside of his brain. “Tell me.”

“Well, I imagined the house that she lived in. I built a huge picture of it in my head down to the last detail, the ivy in the front, the bushes, the flowers around the side and back. It was my escape, my happy place when things were hard at home. When that taxi drove me here the first day, your house, Holmes Manor . . . it was an exact match. I swear, Sherlock, I felt like I was walking into my childhood daydream.”

“Fascinating. In a way, this was your refuge, too.” Sherlock dropped the bottle to a side table, moving forward to fold John into his arms.

“God. What was it, fate? Some psychic resonance? Did I dream you into existence?” John pressed his face to Sherlock’s shirt front.

“I don’t know if I believe in any of those things, and yet I must have dreamed you too.” Sherlock reached up to slide a hand around the nape of John’s neck, fingers trailing into the short hairs there. “I was growing tired of being alone. I kept thinking, what would it be like to have someone to share my life with? Someone who stayed? And then there you were. I hardly dared hope . . .”

“Sweetheart.” John pressed up to catch Sherlock’s lips in a kiss.

They held each other after the kiss ended, unwilling to separate. Eventually they began swaying, although there was no music to follow until John’s stomach growled. With a laugh they separated, and retired to scare something up for dinner out of the bits and bobs in the kitchen.

  
)0(

 

“Dr. Callum? Evan, do you have a minute?” John leaned into the office of the senior physician.

“John, of course, come in.” The man peered at him over the top of his glasses. “What’s on your mind?” He gestured to an open chair as he closed his laptop.

John settled into the chair, not sure of where to begin now that he had the man listening.

“Erm, well, it’s a personal thing.”

“Anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.” Dr. Callum nodded. “You know that.”

“No, no it’s nothing medical, and it’s not a secret. Quite the opposite in fact.” John could feel a film of perspiration forming across the back of his neck.

“Erm well, it’s about the Autumn Ball, sort of.”

“Yes? Don’t tell me you can’t come!” The man’s bushy eyebrows rose.

“No, no, I’m coming, it’s just you’ve been asking to meet my special someone, and I wasn’t very forthcoming.” John took a deep breath. “I should have said something earlier. I’m actually with a man. His name is Sherlock, and I’m bringing him to the ball . . . and I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Dr. Callum glanced down at his hands, taking a moment to reply, and John swallowed, thinking the worst.

“John, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that it would be a problem.” He looked up with warm eyes. “Of course not. We look forward to meeting him.”

“Ah, good, that’s great, then.” John felt almost giddy at the wave of relief washing over him.

“I have a nephew who happens to be homosexual. It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. In fact, I’d been thinking of ways we might make our practice more welcoming to gay patients. Your involvement in the gay community would be quite an asset.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m terribly involved in the gay community, but of course, I’d love to help.”

“Good.” Dr. Callum smiled. “Really, John, I like to think of our practice as a family. If you have any problems with anything, I hope you’ll feel comfortable discussing it with me.”

“Yes, sir, of course, thank you.”

John found Sarah in the break room later.

“Sooo, Sarah, how did things go with Victor?” John moved to join her at the table with his lunch. “Did you two ever connect?”

“Yes, we did.” Sarah ducked her head over her salad, her face flushed. She glanced back up, tucking a fall of hair behind her ear. “It’s going good. Really good. We’ve been talking on the phone almost every night. I really like him.”

“Wow. Well, glad to hear it.” John unwrapped his sandwich. “So he’s coming down for the ball?”

“Yes, he is. It will be a bit weird to finally meet him in person.”

“Oh, he’s very charming. I think you two will hit it off.”

“I hope so. If he comes down again, maybe we can double date?”

John tried not to choke on his food. “Oh, yeah, great idea.”

 

)0(

 

The night was achingly clear and cold, a full spread of bright stars in the velvet sky as they headed to the Autumn Ball. Sherlock handled the Aston Martin deftly, skimming curves, the engine purring under them. Even in the dark, John couldn’t help glancing over at Sherlock’s profile, barely illuminated in the glow of the dashboard. God, he was a gorgeous thing.

Sherlock had taken even longer than usual in the bathroom getting ready for the evening, finally emerging with his hair arranged in perfect curls that shone ever so slightly in the light. His crisp white shirt had paired beautifully with the black suit that skimmed his lean form with a precision to weep for. John had eaten him up with his eyes, slipping from his shiny pointed shoes up to the midnight-blue bow tie to his stunningly-lovely face.

Sherlock had looked at _him_ , and his mouth had fallen open.

It had been a bit of an adventure getting fitted for the bespoke suit. Sherlock had sprawled in a nearby chair, mouth covered by his hand as his seaglass eyes cataloged everything the tailor did. He’d pointedly stayed away for the final fitting, though, saying he wanted to see the finished product on John later. John felt pretty pleased about it, taking a final look in the bedroom mirror. The jacket hung well over his shoulders, and trousers tapered nicely down, making his legs look a bit longer than usual.

Sherlock seemed to approve as well. He stalked in silence to loom over John, then dropped to his knees, pressing his cheek against the placket of John’s trousers.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed.

“So you like it then?” John asked, placing a hand carefully on the back of Sherlock’s intricately coiffed curls.

“You have to wear this later, when we don’t have somewhere to go. I want to . . . unwrap you.”

“That, my love, is a promise,” John said, smirking a bit despite himself.

The hotel hosting the event was a sprawling Victorian jewel, glowing from every window as they pulled up for valet parking. The serious young man who took the car for them politely called them both sir, accepting the Aston Martin with something like religious reverence.

A doorman bowed them past a row of columns through the automatic door into a sweeping space with impossibly tall ceilings. John caught glimpses of chandeliers, white colonnades, and gilded frescos before they were being directed to a coat check and the rooms holding the party.

The place whirled with activity and John struggled to take it all in: women with jewels at their throats, and long bright dresses flashing like peacocks against the dark of the men in suits, waiters gliding by with silver trays, and the muddle of so many conversations overlapping, and music threading through it all. For a moment, John felt a bit short of breath, his leg starting to ache, but then Sherlock was at his side, reaching down to squeeze his hand, and he felt alright again.

“Tickets, sir?”

The tickets had cost a pretty penny, and John dug them out of his pocket to present them to a smiling staff member at the door.

Sherlock steered them to the bar getting two vodka tonics straightaway. John was content to lean against a wall beside Sherlock, the two of them sipping drinks, people watching as the crowd swirled by.

“Oh look, he’s cheating on his wife,” Sherlock whispered, nodding to a nearby, dapper-looking gentleman. “Oh, and _she’s_ just had a new grandchild born.” He tipped his chin toward a plump woman dressed in winter white.

John chuckled, enjoying Sherlock’s quiet running commentary. “Yeah? What about that couple?”

“Oh.” Sherlock flushed over his cheeks. “They’ll be getting married soon. He’s going to pop the question tonight.”

“Huh, fancy that.” John took a swallow of his drink as the pleasant-looking man and woman dressed in matching tartan passed by.

Sherlock had gone back to the bar for another round of drinks when a familiar voice called out.

“Oi, Lion Man!” Victor appeared with a smiling Sarah in tow.

“Victor, Sarah!” John grinned. He shook the hand that Victor extended, and kissed Sarah on the cheek.

Sarah wore a lovely, long red dress with sparkly trim, and Victor was the height of fashion in a dark suit, gold-trimmed waistcoat and matching tie. They looked quite nice together.

“Enjoying yourselves?” John asked.

“We just got here,” Sarah said breathlessly. By the look she threw Victor, though, she was not at all displeased with her escort.

“Yeah, this looks fantastic though. Really nice place,” Victor said, smiling back at Sarah.

“I’ve not been here before, it’s quite posh, isn’t it?” John waved an arm at the large ballroom, positively dripping with architectural frippery in every corner.

“I’ve been a few times.” Sarah shrugged. “It’s a bit fussy for my tastes, but the food here is to _die_ for. You’re in for a treat.”

“Sherlock around?” Victor asked, looking about.

“He’s at the bar.” John squinted in that direction. “Somewhere in all that mess.”

“I think that’s the right idea,” Victor said. “Can I get you something?” He touched Sarah’s elbow.

“Yes, a white wine spritzer, thank you.”

Sarah joined John at the wall while they waited for their dates to return.

“Soooo?” John nudged her. “Is Victor treating you alright?”

“He’s scrummy.” Sarah’s eyes shone as she turned to face John. “He’s even nicer in person. Ooh, I don’t want to say anything more. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it.”

“Naw, it’ll be fine.”

John looked up to see Victor and Sherlock moving their way with drinks, heads and shoulders above much of the crowd, looking like a panther and a snow leopard parting the sheep.

“Ta.” John accepted his glass from Sherlock with a little smile.

Dr. Callum showed up sometime later with his wife, Anika, an East Asian woman with silver in her hair. John shook hands all around, and proudly introduced Sherlock. The night became a whirl after that of meeting people, and trying to remember faces and names.

They were seated for a dinner that kept coming, and Sarah was right, the food was delicious. John sat by Anika Callum, who turned out to be a nurse who had spent time abroad with Doctors Without Borders, and John enjoyed speaking with her immensely. Sherlock ended up with Victor on his other side, most likely by design, and the two got into a rousing debate about the ethics of using experimental drugs on animal test subjects that eventually pulled in the whole table.

When the live band started, people gathered at the open space set aside for dancing.

“Shall we?” John tipped his chin.

Sherlock cocked his head and winced. “The violinist is too fast.”

“Yeah, come on, I didn’t have all those lessons for nothing.” John pushed back from his chair to stand.

“Mr. Holmes, may I have this dance?”

Sherlock looked up, his blue eyes warm and bright. “I’d be honored.”

John was a bit nervous, and even Sherlock seemed a tad stiff as they set out, but fairly quickly they were lost in the crowd, dancing to the lilting strains of some song that had surely been all the rage in the 1800’s. Victor and Sarah twirled nearby at one point, Sarah giving them a little wave, but soon enough, John only had eyes for the bewitching man in his arms.

“You, sir, are the best looking man at this whole do,” John whispered by his ear. “I’m a lucky bastard to be here with you.” It was true, Sherlock was naturally beautiful, but the stark black and white of his suit set his coloring off exquisitely. It fairly made John’s heart ache just to look at him.

“John.” Sherlock blushed. “That is patently untrue, as I am at this dance with the most attractive man in existence."

John chuckled, and hugged Sherlock a bit closer in his arms.

“I’m not sure what you see in me sometimes, love, but I’m glad you do.” He smiled widely at his boyfriend, before he executed a bit of a merengue twist that Sherlock had taught him, knees bent, step, step.

Sherlock laughed as he mirrored it perfectly, a deep rumbling thing like thunder under John’s skin.

They danced through several songs, John leading Sherlock competently enough about the floor, then took a break, moving to the bar for refreshment. A fair-haired, middle-aged man stopped them, extending a palm to John.

 “Charles Matheson, cardiology.”  He had a rich Scottish brogue.

“John Watson, GP.”  John took his hand cheerfully. “This is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.” He indicated Sherlock with a wide sweep of an arm that ended up at Sherlock’s back.

“Pleasure.” Sherlock leaned in to shake the man’s hand.

“This is my boyfriend, Jacob Whitney.”

A darker haired fellow John hadn’t noticed right away, stepped forward. “How do you do? I’m in oncology.”

 “Pleased to meet you.” John shook his hand even more heartily.

“I want to thank you, both of you . . . for being out there like that,” Charles said, looking eagerly between them.

“Yes, you looked fantastic together.” Jacob nodded. “Charles keeps saying we need to learn ballroom, but I keep putting it off. Next year for certain.”

“Oh, thank you. Sherlock gave me some pointers.” John squeezed Sherlock fondly about the waist.

They chatted a moment, exchanging contact information, before leaving the couple to continue on toward drinks.

Sherlock brushed curls that had fallen over his face out of the way. “Jacob is bisexual. He worries about how he’s seen at work.”

“Oh, love, I’m sorry about earlier, you know I am . . .”

Sherlock cut him off. “I know, John. It’s alright.”

They manage to procure drinks, switching to fizzy water, and took them out to the courtyard to cool down a minute. White fairy lights shone invitingly in the small potted trees set around the edges, and a few outdoor heaters kept the partygoers milling about the space comfortable. The smell of burning tobacco drifted over from one corner where the smokers were allowed. John saw Sherlock lean unconsciously that way, and steered him toward a bench farthest away from them.

“Thank you for coming tonight. And for the suit. And for everything, really. Basically, thank you for existing.”  John grinned at Sherlock, looking so elegant as he perched on the edge of the seat, long legs stretched out before him.

“I could say the same for you. John, you are a wonder.” Sherlock looked almost shy. He leaned in for a kiss that was sweetly warm in the chilly air.

A commotion on the other side of the courtyard drew their attention. The man in the tartan kilt was on one knee before the woman in the dress with the matching plaid trim. She’d obviously said yes by the way the nearby people cheered, and the couple stood and embraced.

“Oh, isn’t that lovely?” John smiled.

“John, you realize marriage doesn’t change the fundamental nature of a relationship? If anything it adds extra stressors, societal expectations that often doom . . .”

“No, I know. It’s alright, sweet, I’m not asking.” John patted Sherlock’s knee. “Not until the thirtieth, that is,” he added cheekily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John leaned in to sneak another kiss. Sherlock’s lips were soft as velvet, beckoning John in to take more . . .

“Here you mashers are.”

They broke apart to find Victor beside them, holding Sarah’s hand.

“We’re taking off, wanted to say good-bye,” Sarah said, grinning.

“Oh, excellent.” John rose to hug Sarah. “I’ll see you Monday, then.”

Victor and Sherlock held a mumbled exchange. John shook Victor’s hand, and then their friends were gone.

“They’re off to shag,” Sherlock mused.

“Well, you don’t have to say it out loud!” John shook his head. “You know, we could probably get out of here too.”

“Yes?” Sherlock looked more bright-eyed than he had a moment before.

“Definitely. We’ve seen and been seen. We can go.”

It took a few moments to extract themselves from the gathering, make some good-byes, gather their coats and find their way back to the valet to retrieve their car. They chatted about Victor and Sarah for most of the way home, then drifted to other topics until finally they were pulling into their familiar drive.

There was a hush in the cold night air as they crunched over the gravel to the front door, a sharp sliver of moon hanging overhead. Sherlock pulled out the key, and let them into the warmth of the foyer.

By unspoken agreement, they shucked their coats, and made their way directly to the bedroom, only the lamp in the front hall to light the way. John was on Sherlock in an instant, pulling him into a deep, drugging kiss. They peeled layers off with little finesse, fingers eager to reach warm skin. It was a revelation, a homecoming to finally land, fully bared, on the mattress together.

“I want you in me, _please_ , John,” Sherlock breathed, and John couldn’t fumble out the tube of lubricant quickly enough.

He slicked his fingers, bringing the wet to paint over Sherlock’s entrance, before gathering another cold stripe to quickly slick his own cock. They cried out in unison as John sank in to the hilt, bringing their bodies flush. They moved in accord, soft and slow, trying to get closer, ever closer, as they rocked and moaned, finally picking up the tempo to finish. Sherlock lay open mouthed, and spent, groaning as John grunted out his release. 

“God, love, that was . . .” John was breathless as he fell beside him.

“Yes it was.” The smug smile was more than evident in Sherlock’s voice.

“Love, you know, it’s alright if you don’t want to get married.” John reached out to cup his face, smoothing his thumb over his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock caught his hand to lay a kiss to the back of it. “Thank you, John. I know.”

When they settled down to sleep, cleaned and dressed for bed, John sighed, gathering Sherlock closer.

“Love, my own love,” John mumbled into the sweet-smelling curls mashed under his chin.

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbled back sleepily before they drifted off.

 

)0(

 

There was a white delivery van by the side of the house when John got home from work. Curious, he walked over to inspect it after he’d parked his car. The sign on the side read “The Sweetest Things.” John knew there were a handful of shops in the area that Sherlock deigned to sell his wares to, but this one was unfamiliar. He’d asked Sherlock once why he didn’t sell online with a website, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes quite spectacularly.

 “God, John, that would entail _work_. No, I need to keep the business manageable.”

John walked around to the back door, coming inside to find delicious smells in the kitchen, and Sherlock with a couple of pretty young women in the workshop room. They were obviously packing jars of honey for transport. The women were buzzing around Sherlock like bees at a fresh patch of clover.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, that’s so clever,” the ginger one said, smiling as she laid a hand to Sherlock’s bicep. 

“John!” Sherlock looked up, an expression of pure delight flooding his face when he spied him.

“Hey, love.” John crossed the room to land a big, wet smack on Sherlock’s lips.

The woman who’d been touching Sherlock’s arm gratifyingly moved away.

“Is this a new place?” John asked nodding toward the general direction of the van outside.

“It is. I got an idea from that baking show. I contacted some sweet shops that might be interested in making honey sweets, and found these fine people. Emma, Louise, this is my boyfriend, John.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the brunette said, offering a hand to shake while the ginger one struggled up a tight smile.

John helped them carry out the last of the honey to the van. When the women had driven off, Sherlock turned toward the house, but John stopped him, grabbing his arm to spin him around.

“May I have this dance, sir?”

“John.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “There’s no music.”

“You are poetry and music in motion,” John said. “Dance with me.”

“Alright.” Sherlock smiled as John maneuvered them into regulation ballroom position to begin.

John gracefully led Sherlock in a box step around the drive, humming something vaguely as accompaniment.

“Hmm, you’ve grown rather good at that.”

“I’ve had a good teacher,” John said, beaming up at the lovely man in his arms, just now noticing a small smudge across his cheek.

“Hey you’ve something here . . .” He reached up to flick it away.

“Oh, what . . .”

It stuck to John’s thumb. Honey. John sucked it off before tugging Sherlock closer, licking over his face to clear the rest of it. _Delicious._

Sherlock laughed, a deep, rich sound John could feel down to his bones.

“Sweetheart,” John murmured against his skin.

“John, come inside.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining when John pulled back. “It’s getting chilly.”

“Of course, love.” John took his hand, tugging him back to the warm, yellow kitchen, and whatever smelled so good on the hob.

 

~@~ THE END ~@~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hotel hosting the Autumn Ball is based on this beautiful place - [ The Grand Hotel ](https://www.grandeastbourne.com/) in Eastbourne, UK. It looks like a fantastic spot for events and general visiting. You might look it up if interested!
> 
> So we are at the end of our journey in Sussex! Many, many thanks to all who've commented and cheerleaded this fic into existence. I've appreciated you all! Kisses and hugs, we've left our lovely men at a good stopping place for the moment!


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